


The Aviator and the Engineer

by KonstantineXIII



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies), RWBY
Genre: Canon at my Convenience, Character Death, Established Relationship, F/F, Grimm are Kaiju, Jaegers (Pacific Rim), Kaiju are Grimm, Swearing, The Drift (Pacific Rim), Violence, excessive flirting, implied sex, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-14 21:08:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 51,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17515916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KonstantineXIII/pseuds/KonstantineXIII
Summary: “Ranger Xiao Long,” Winter lifted her chin, “The Grimm are coming back. The only question left is this: Would you rather die here, or in a Jaeger?”-or-Pacific Rim AU





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Български език available: [Авиаторът и Инженерът](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20976764) by [nfminfs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nfminfs/pseuds/nfminfs)



> good luck with this monster. I've broken it up into three chapters for readability.  
> kindly step over the plot holes.

** Now **

 

It only took three knocks for the door to explode open.

“Ruby! I’ve missed you so much!”

“ _Oof-!_ Yang!”

“Come on, can’t I be excited to see my baby sister?”

It was like being hugged by a hurricane. Blonde hair, soap, and the red dust of an Australian road tickled her nose. Ruby felt herself be lowered back to the ground and gave a possibly genuine wheeze. She didn’t bother wiping the smile from her face when Yang released her, a zealous, loud kiss dropped to her temple. Her hands lingered on her sister’s arms.

“Broken ribs in the name of excitement isn’t a valid excuse,”

Yang’s grin didn’t waver, her lilac eyes glittering.

“Lies. Besides, didn’t you already break a few during training?” she slung an arm over Ruby’s shoulders and muscled her into the house, “No one I know graduated basic training without at least two, if fractures count,”

Ruby smiled under Yang’s arm. She had missed her sister a lot.

“Well if fractures count,” Ruby’s voice rolled nearly to the ceiling, “Then you’ll be happy to know I made it out with three,”

Yang laughed, big and warm, ushering Ruby into the kitchen and seating her firmly at the table.

“That’s my sister,” she winked, turning to the fridge, “I’ve got beer, vodka lemonade, and spiked iced tea,”

“Water?”

“Not on my watch,”

Yang filled a glass from the tap anyway, Ruby settling in as her sister shuffled around the small kitchen. She hadn’t been here in six months. Yang had driven her to the airport when she left for basic, and it was strangely nice to come back to the same place when she felt so changed.

“Because if you’re here you either graduated, or you flunked. And both occasions call for alcohol,”

Ruby laughed shortly, Yang smiling as she poured herself into the opposite chair, a beer and two slices of chocolate cake accompanying her. Ruby groaned.

“I have got to get myself a girlfriend,”

Yang snorted, cybernetic fingers popping the top from her bottle.

“It definitely doesn’t suck,”

Ruby dug in, six months of cold turkey sugar withdraw rearing its head with a vengeance. She hummed through a full mouth, shame absent in front of the woman who changed her diapers as a baby.

“Where is Blake, anyway?”

Yang’s eyes went light they way they always did, turning to glance through the window like she’d be able to see her. Ruby’s smile tuned light and private at the expression. Some things never changed. After the 180-degree whiplash-inducing turn her life had taken in the past six months, constants were good to have.

“The shop,” Yang waved dismissively, “Emergency, DEFCON 1, crisis of Mach 5 proportions or something. She’ll be back though,” Ruby nodded, understanding. Yang tipped her head, “So, little sister,” her nose wrinkled, “You didn’t tell me you graduated. What’s up with that? We wanted to come!”

Ruby swallowed. The moisture in the cake dried in her mouth.

“Well, I wasn’t necessarily part of the regular graduating class,” she started. Yang’s eyebrows raised and lowered quickly, a clear question as to whether this was good news or not. Ruby played with her fork, “In fact, I wound up doing really well. Top of my class, actually,”

Yang’s pride seeped outwards, her posture leaning, “Ruby, that’s great! I knew you were going to be amazing! Well done! We should celebrate,”

The smaller woman nodded, grateful.

“Thanks, Yang,” she shrugged halfheartedly, “But they asked me to hang around instead of going to the graduating ceremony. To see if I’d be interested in… an alternate route after graduation,”

Yang’s elation ebbed, Ruby’s careful tone finally seeming to sink in. Blonde eyebrows drew as she took in her sister’s bracing posture, her hesitant verbal steps. She sighed quickly through her nose, suspicion and something close to dread stealing into her chest. Ruby watched it all roll across Yang’s features. She swallowed again, dropping her fork; dropping pretense. Yang drank her beer, setting it down like a gauntlet thrown.

“Who’s ‘they’ Ruby?”

A light moment, and then the plunge.

“General Ironwood,”

“And?”

“Jacques Schnee and Ozborn Ozpin,”

Ruby watched Yang’s features carefully, her lavender eyes hardening in degrees, locked on her own. Her sister was nothing short of highly intelligent on a lazy day, and brilliant on a good one.

“Just tell me,”

“The UN brought back the PPDC three months ago. And they’re bringing back the Jaeger Program,” Ruby sucked in a breath, “They’re recruiting me to go to the Jaeger Academy opening up, and I want to go. They wanted me to ask if you’d consider coming too. Coming back,”

Yang didn’t move. Ruby prepped for the final drive, a splinter shoved deeper down.

“They… They told me that they fixed Ember Shroud,”

When the beer bottle exploded, Yang looked just as surprised as Ruby. The blonde swore, her left hand opening a panel on her robotic right arm’s bicep, jaw locked. She made several taps, closing the lid and manually prying her right fist open.

“Sorry,” Yang mumbled, “Haven’t recalibrated in a couple months,”

“It’s okay,”

The sisters sat in tense silence, Yang’s arm finally cooperating. She breathed through her nose, fixing her sister with a solid stare, mouth set.

“Why are they bringing the program back?”

Ruby had been told explicitly not to, but Yang’s balled left hand, the rigid slope of her shoulders, and the intense honesty in her eyes decided it. She reached to her pocket and shook out several papers, edges ragged out and tightly folded, the ‘CLASSIFIED’ stamp inked red and ignored.

“The Grimm left for no reason,” Ruby started, turning the papers and spreading it for Yang’s devouring eyes, “and the Mariana Trench has been quiet. Until three months ago,” She pointed to a grainy, night-vision scrambled photo, “When a G-researcher took that,”

Yang picked up the photo, eyes narrow. It was undoubtedly the breach. She’d seen it in countless briefs. Seen it in person.

In her nightmares.

And in this shitty, world-ending photo, it was glowing. She worked her jaw, glancing back to her sister’s worried expression. Ruby pointed around some more, data and readings flying past. Yang quickly turned her head to the front door, the unmistakable sound of tires on gravel crunching into her ears. She frowned, and caught the guilty look on Ruby’s face.

“I uh, brought guests?”

Yang breathed through the ball in her chest.

“Next time, just walk them in. I hate serving drinks twice,”

Ruby smiled, relieved. Yang threw her a forgiving look. She knew how the Pan Pacific Defense Corps worked. Their invitations usually came with an ‘or else’ chaser. Like a cue had signaled, a firmly polite knock rapped on the door. Ruby looked to Yang, who rolled her eyes, heaving out of her chair.

And got another beer.

She pried off the top, winking at Ruby as the door suffered the efficient attention of their uninvited guests again. Yang leaned against the fridge languidly, Ruby breaking, smiling at her sister broadly.

The house was quiet for a second, the air confused and waiting.

Ruby’s scroll chimed in her pocket, a ringing Yang apparently found hilarious, as she snorted and drank her beer. The smaller girl checked the ID and held up the unknown number to her sister, who, after a squint, gave a maniac grin and ripped her jacket off, throwing it across the kitchen. Ruby jumped, following her sister’s tank top as she ambled down the hall, completely bewildered.

Yang swung the door open, beer in hand, to find the surprised faces of two men, one with a fist raised to knock. Yang smiled.

“Afternoon,” she cheered, “If you could come back with your boss, that’d be great. Sorry, but after 10, I only let Global Leaders in the house. Thanks!”

And slammed the door.

Ruby raised her eyebrows, Yang smiling fondly with her back to the front door. She lolled her head to look at her sister, holding a finger up, waiting, and nodding with purpose on the down stroke.

Precisely at that moment, a staccato knock sounded against the door. Ruby leaned against the foyer, watching. Yang pushed off, and opened the door once more, wide and welcoming. On the other side, a stylish woman in her 30’s looked pissed. She couldn’t have been more than a year older than Yang. Beautiful, pinched features with disciplined snow-white hair subjugated into a severe bun. Her eyes were icy.

“Winter!” Yang crowed, “I’ll be damned. Who knew Ironwood would send such a warm, affectionate, and charismatic minion to leverage my baby sister? A charmer, that man,”

The woman seemed to suffer a seizure while holding completely still. Yang plowed on, stepping back and bowing, “Can I welcome you in? Take your coat? Kiss your ass?”

Ruby smiled. Yang had never liked anyone who wore a badge at their waist.

Ignoring her completely, Winter stepped into the house like Yang was renting it from her. The blonde shut the door in the faces of both men flanking her. Winter’s jaw jumped.

“May we speak privately?”

Yang’s grin spilled like paint.

“What, trying to get me alone already?” she sidled up to the tight-shouldered woman, slick as an oil spill, “Winter, why didn’t you just lead with that?” Yang extended her right hand to plant against the wall near Winter’s head, her musculature defined. Ruby bit her bottom lip, Yang going so far as to bring her left hand’s nails to her face, inspecting and flexing in the same movement.

“You changed your hair,” Yang tossed her a devastating, too-keen smile, “I like it,”

Winter Schnee looked like she wanted to hit her.

“Stop this at once,”

“You know, I’ve missed you these last five years,” Yang turned to stare Winter in the eye, “Haven’t known what to do with myself. Any suggestions?”

A sub-zero narrowing of Winter’s eyes let Ruby know exactly what she’d like Yang to go and do.

“This is a matter of global emergency,” Winter grit, “I would appreciate your full attention, Ranger Xiao Long,”

Yang’s playful façade fell away with her arm, her eyes darkening, Winter not flinching. Yang’s jaw squared. She drew to her full height, chin tipping up. She nodded, leading the way to her kitchen.

“Give us a minute, alright, Rubes?”

The smaller woman nodded at Yang, her chest tightened. She wondered faintly when the last time anyone had referred to Yang as ‘Ranger’. Watching them go, Ruby saw Winter glance over the house, pictures and Spartan décor, all smelling of a hominess no candle could comprehend.

She remembered when she’d first set foot in this house. After everything, the US had given Yang indefinite leave, Blake released completely. They spent most of their time that first year settling down and helping to build New Sydney. Ruby smiled at a picture on the wall of herself in a half-nelson-half-hug, Yang victorious and grinning as she held the lifted camera. Blake had a hand on Yang’s right arm, human and whole. They all smiled, a towering metal structure looming behind them. She touched the next one, a familiar, silver-haired corporal corralled between Blake and Yang.

Ruby sighed, her head turning toward the kitchen at the sound of low voices. It was a small house. She couldn’t help but eavesdrop. She crept the necessary steps to the kitchen door, her breath stilling as she put her ear against it.

On the other side, Yang had leaned against the stove, watching Winter circle her kitchen. The woman flickered eyes over pictures and post cards on the fridge, a scribbled grocery list, the remnants of a cake plate. Glass on the floor. Her eyes landed on the pictures sitting innocently on Yang’s kitchen table. Winter’s lips went tight, her voice dry.

“That information is highly classified,” she said, gaze flicking to Yang, “You are sisters, then,”

Yang’s lips twisted humorlessly, “Isn’t that what you’re hoping for?”

Winter straightened.

“I’ll cut to the chase,”

“Thank God,”

“The breach is opening, Xiao Long. We don’t know when, and we don’t know why,” Winter held her gaze, “You’re not the best. Not any more. But you’re very good, and General Ironwood wants you. Ozpin wants you even more. We’re seeing activity we’ve never seen before, and it has the potential to destroy or end life on this planet as we know it,”

Yang bit her cheek, looking away.

“Blake will never go for it,”

Winter let a small frown mar her tone, “We’re well aware,”

Yang looked back, surprised. She watched Winter’s unmoving figure, her thoughts spooling out.

“But you’re not here for Blake, are you? Or else you would have come when she was home,” Yang’s mind sped as her voice slowed, her blood curdling in her veins, “You want me to pilot Ember Shroud… without her?”

“Ruby’s test scores are good. You’re her closest relative. Blood sisters, too,”

Yang closed her mouth, her chest beating heavily at the idea. Thinking back to before; another lifetime. A million images flashed through her mind’s eye, her chest balled and burning. Scenes eras long uncoiled in her memory. She imagined wiping Blake out of them. It turned her stomach. Her jaw wired shut, throat tight in effort to keep the sickness down.

“I won’t pilot Ember Shroud without Blake,” Yang’s eyes turned to spark dangerously, “Not only because I don’t want to, but because the neural network won’t hold a handshake with me that isn’t hers. It’s coded into the interface. Blake did it herself,”

Winter frowned, “We haven’t completed repairs yet. I’m sure it can be dismantled,” she dodged coolly, “That machine is your legacy. You know it better than any other pilot would be able to train for,”

“I said no,”

“To Ember Shroud,” Winter parried, “We can give you a new Jaeger. Mark-V, if you want,”

Yang’s hand tightened to a fist. Her ears rang with echoes. With thought. God, she wished Blake were home. Her mind flashed toward Ruby. Her younger sister, a grown woman now, older even than Yang had been when she’d first set foot in a Jaeger.

“Ranger Xiao Long,” Winter lifted her chin, “The Grimm are coming back. The only question left is this: Would you rather die here, or in a Jaeger?”

It was an impossible question; a rhetorical question, and they both knew it. Winter’s posture waned.

“We’re prepared to promise you compensation of your choice. As incentive, if you will,”

Yang wanted to deliver the derisive laugh bubbling in her throat.

“Provided I live?”

“Not at all,”

Yang glanced to the blank, meaningful rise of Winter’s slender brow. Yang looked away, feeling the boil of her temper start to build. Her jaw ground into the stretch of silence.

“Your wife,” the first hint of a smile glinted through the woman’s tone, Yang instantly glaring at her, “will be taken care of for the rest of her life, your performance disregarded,”

“And I suppose I’ll need to get that in writing?”

“It would be wise,”

Yang snorted derisively.

“Good thing I keep my lawyer on speed dial just in case I run into any federally-funded bureaucratic bullshit on short notice,”

A twang of the past simmered between them. Yang gave a tight, honest smile, Winter clearing her throat and averting her eyes. She reached into her jacket for her scroll, opened it, and handed it off to Yang.

“Name your price. That goes directly to General Ironwood,”

“I thought it was a reward, not a price,” Yang muttered, taking the fragile glass and resisting the urge to grind it to sand in her hand.

“Whatever gets you in a Jaeger,”

“How about a promotion, then?” Yang said darkly, typing into the open window, “ _General_ Ironwood, _Special Agent_ Schnee,” she gave a nasty smile, “Share the wealth,”

Winter paused, assessing, “You’re joking,” she finalized. Yang huffed, rolling her eyes.

“Yeah, I’m joking,” she ground, “You’d think a promotion would come with a standard issue sense of humor,”

“I’m afraid not,”

Yang hummed, handing the device back to Winter. She looked it over, a white eyebrow slowly rising. Yang lifted her chin, eyes flint. Winter nodded.

“I don’t believe the General would have a problem with this. It seems… fair,”

“You know, I don’t really care what Ironwood thinks. Besides, I made a promise,”

Winter’s mouth parted, uncharacteristic surprise in her azure eyes. Yang would have laughed if her mouth didn’t taste more bitter than day-old coffee.

A soft tap at the door caught their attention. Ruby slowly poked her head around the corner, seeing the coast clear, absent broken glass or bruises. She cleared her throat.

“Uh, Blake’s home,”

Yang breathed sharply, the rigid posture immediately dispersing. She grimaced a smile. Winter only lifted her chin. Ruby fully stepped into the kitchen and waited with them in silence. She played with her fingers.

The front door opened, and Yang closed her eyes. She couldn’t help the periodic flicker of a smile as she listened to the familiar rhythm of her life’s light in motion. All the while, it was a cacophony of Lasts.

The jingle and slick grind of a sticking key Blake always complained about exiting the lock. The door closed. Dead air. Blake could feel the house was too still. The arm of the military had never touched it, this chunk of safety they’d carved for themselves. Yang was sure that walking into it was as foreign feeling as stepping into cold storage.

A shuffle, a clack, and Yang knew Blake had set her briefcase and bag down under the table in the hallway. A heeled step, two, and a third. A pause. Blake backtracked; punctuated the steps with something close to a bang, another thud following it from where she was throwing Yang’s shoes up the stairs and to the landing.

Sharp clicks resumed, and Yang opened her eyes at the soundless swing of the kitchen door. She had lucked out, that’s for sure. Blake was dressed in a simple black pencil skirt, charcoal heels setting off the dark gray piping of her lilac blouse. Her hair tumbled free and royal midnight, face with only the faintest touches of make up. Yang didn’t fight the smile the sight of her drew up.

That afternoon Blake had gotten ready in a rush, the physical therapy center they owned, affectionately named ‘The Body Shop’, having encountered an issue with the facilities management. She had dabbed on concealer over the bathroom sink, grumping at the bags under her eyes. Yang had laughed at her.

“Leave it,” she’d crooned, stepping up to fit Blake’s perfect ass into the cradle of her hips. She kissed into the black of Blake’s hair, “I really want you to answer people when they ask why you’re losing sleep,”

Her smile had been wolfish, Blake’s eyes rolling.

“Your ego can starve,” she replied, voice dry as kindling, “Especially after you did this to me,” her head tipped, a sweet, strawberry-blue colored oval sitting beneath the skin revealed, “What are you, 17?”

Yang cackled faux-madly, cuddling Blake deeper into her.

“Sorry,” she replied, another kiss planted to the top of Blake’s spine, “I was a big fan of your work that last round. Got distracted,”

Blake only chuckled, resuming her make up, “I’m a 29 year old woman, and I have a hickey,” she sighed, “What will the neighbors say?”

“Hopefully anything, while choking on something,” Yang wrinkled her nose, “Diane can kiss my ass after that hedge debacle. How dare she measure our fucking shrubbery. Two extra inches. Two. How can I take someone like that seriously?”

Blake made direct eye contact with her in the mirror, a storm of amused desire roiling across her features.

“Relax, babe. The only thing you should be concerned with taking is two extra inches tonight,”

Yang froze. And then her spine crackled, fizzing warm and loved. It clamped heavy in her stomach, pulling behind her belly button, but she pushed it away. She had laughed and laughed. Buried her face in Blake’s hair and waited for her to finish.

Blake’s smile was a crook at the corner of her lips, Yang’s warmth constant behind her. She clattered around her make up bag. Selected an eye shadow palate. She held it up and pointed to different circles.

“One and two, or two and three?”

“With the grey heels?”

“Mhm,”

“One three,”

Blake obeyed, continuing. She finished and paused critically, eyeing her reflection. Yang pushed until Blake’s thighs hit the countertop.

“You can stop there,” she whispered, eyes locking with her girlfriend’s, “You look beautiful,”

Blake’s smile was softer than satin. She dropped her head, pleased in her quiet way. She put her make up back in the bag. Yang had told her countless times how much she liked her natural look. It was a favorite, amongst all the other favorites Yang had told her about.

So she had worn it to work. Yang smiled at her across the kitchen. Blake really was too beautiful.

“Hey, babe,” Yang said cheerfully, a small, brittle sort of plead in her tone. Blake’s eyes jumped to Winter. Ruby. The kitchen table. Back to Yang. The blonde took shelter behind an impressive appeal of a smile, “I invited some friends over. You look great, by the way. Is that a new shirt?”

Blake sent her girlfriend an unimpressed look. Ruby buried a laugh as Yang’s smile broadened, her shoulders relaxing. Blake shifted focus to the standing woman.

“Winter,”

“Blake,”

Blake let a small twitch take her lips, “Has she tried to hit on you yet?”

“She allowed me five minutes first,”

“She’s thoughtful like that. Did she offer you anything to drink?”

Yang watched Winter’s eyes go truly light for the first time since entering the house.

“I don’t require one anyway,”

Blake hummed, crossing to the counter next to Yang and depositing her keys in a dish. Her hand rose to let fingers linger under Yang’s jaw. She lifted an eyebrow at the blonde, “Thoughtful like that,”

Yang sent her a reckless smile. Blake broke, her eyes going amused and fond. Yang wiggled slightly, Blake immediately scoffing as if this had been a full sentence. Ruby only smiled when Blake leaned in for a short, welcoming, kiss. Yang pulled away with the grin of a champion, heart fluttering in what could only be the last lights of an era.

Blake turned around, a mild, friendly look on her face, “What can we do for you, Winter?”

Winter’s small almost-smile died like a flower wilting in the sun, and Yang sigh deeply. She looked to Ruby quickly, her sister tense and staring at Blake. Ruby had once laughingly told her ‘thank God for Blake’s eyes’. It took actual confusion for Ruby to clarify. Yang could read Blake without even looking at her, but everyone else saw a stone wall if that’s what Blake preferred. After all these years, Ruby had only been able to find Blake’s real emotions in her eyes, her thoughts locked behind the beautiful visage’s vault.

Winter drew herself taller, her mouth set.

“You can return to the PPDC and pilot Ember Shroud. The breach is active once again. If you cannot do this, you can allow Yang to. Ruby has been selected to attend the Jaeger Academy and will accompany her,”

Blake didn’t move, her jaw set and eyes narrow as she returned Winter’s hard gaze. The air was still. Tense. And then, slowly, she turned to look at Yang.

Yang, her life’s partner and greatest devotion. Yang, who she would support through war and famine, through heartbreak and joy. Yang, whose face was set in tired, heart rending, apology.

Blake’s eyes were steel.

“Winter,” she said, eyes unmoving from the weary lilac, “I think it’s time you see yourself out,”

“Ms. Rose,” Winter said quietly, “If you’ll come with me,”

Ruby nodded, swallowing. Winter cleared her throat.

“We’ll be in touch,” she said, not bothering to wait for Blake or Yang to look away from the other. Winter stepped out, Ruby following slowly. She wanted to say something, anything. Make it better. Make it work. But she knew not to intervene. Once she was gone, the kitchen door closed softly behind her.

Yang’s gaze hadn’t left the darkening amber desperation in front of her.

“You promised me,” Blake’s voice was a sheathed dagger. Silk brushed the ears, the timbre low and sweet and dangerous, “You promised me, Yang,”

Yang’s shoulders were caved, expression fragile and lonely. The sound of that voice cracked her chest, reached in and pulled her heart from the cavity.

“You told her yes,” Blake’s velvet tones, like black fur brushing skin, came out hollow and realizing. Like her misery had been jarred and opened again. Her eyes danced over every inch of Yang’s face.

It hadn’t been a question, but Yang knew it required answering.

“I told her I needed to talk to you,”

Blake’s head lifted, “Meaning you plan to,”

Yang’s heart ached, her throat dry when she tried to swallow. She flexed her jaw, sure the guilt was clear in her eyes. Blake broke eye contact, looking away and shaking her head faintly. She looked out the kitchen window, unseeing.

“We did our time,” she said, her tempo a steam engine gaining speed and heat, “We did our time, Yang. We saved what we could, and we almost lost _everything_ ,” Blake was shaking, vibrating with compressed anger, her voice quailing, eyes burning, “We were the minority who didn’t die, and that was only through arrogance and sheer, stupid, _luck_. Don’t you dare tell me I’m crazy,”

Yang looked closer to crying than Blake did.

“You’re not,”

“This is one of those times, Yang, where I know I’m not wrong, and everyone else is confused,”

“It’s not about being wrong,” Yang’s jaw set, the shimmer of her violet eyes pleading understanding. She stood, stepping carefully from the stove. Instinctively, Blake’s spine eased, Yang’s mere proximity settling her, “It’s about what’s right,”

Blake sagged against the countertop, her eyes closing. Her voice was near grief.

“I can’t protect you like this,”

Yang breathed, entering Blake’s personal space. Her chest brushed the woman’s shoulder, reaching to take Blake’s hand gently. Blake immediately returned pressure, a frantic grip on reality as she knew it.

“That’s why we protect each other,” Yang said softly.

“How are we supposed to do that here, Yang?”

The blonde swallowed, thumb rolling over Blake’s knuckles.

“We’ll love each other. Like always. And then we’ll be together again,”

Blake’s free hand came up to smooth over her own brow, shaky and severe.

“You promised me,” Blake’s response was through water.

“And I’m going to keep that promise,”

“I don’t _want_ your promise if you aren’t around, Yang!” her head swiveled, eyes flashing through her tears. Yang’s didn’t rise to the reaction. She lifted a metal-plated hand, brushing a traitorous tear away and curling behind her head. Blake’s breathing came jerky and labored, her eyes closing once more.

“I’m not strong enough not to fight,” Yang whispered, her tone begging understanding. Blake’s eyes opened, and Yang knew the shattered look reverberated from her chest.

“I can’t,” Blake swallowed, “I can’t do that again,”

Yang’s jaw clamped. It was only in the past two years that Blake had stopped waking up in a cold sweat, crying, gasping like she had to breathe enough for two.

“I know,” she swallowed sand, “I know. You don’t have to,”

* * *

“Ms. Schnee?” Ruby started in.

“Special Agent,” the woman corrected blankly. Ruby nodded. No one took exact offense for mistaken ranks and titles inside the UN. It’s why the PPDC started their own. Winter tapped at her scroll grimly, Ruby realizing that General Ironwood may or may not consider this a success, depending on the woman’s wording.

“Sorry,” Ruby said, “Special Agent Schnee. Can I ask you a question sort of… personal?”

The woman sighed, putting the device down and nodding. Ruby cocked her head. In the time she’s been exposed to Winter Schnee, she’d realized that Winter wasn’t explicitly unfriendly, just tense. Everything about her was tense.

“Why is it you like Blake better than Yang? I mean, besides the fact that Yang’s probably the only officer I know who has a problem with authority,”

Winter’s indomitable posture twitched.

“It’s not a matter of ‘liking’ either of them,” Winter didn’t break professionalism for a moment, “But I’ll respect Blake Belladonna until I die,” she looked annoyed at herself, “Not to be trite,”

Ruby smiled smally, waiting. Winter roused herself.

“When Ozpin created the neural connection, it killed the first pilot to attempt to control a Jaeger in 10 minutes. Much later, a Grimm named Spinejackal landed a killing blow to the Mark-II Jaeger Arkos Valiant. Unfortunately, it killed only one of its pilots, Jaune Arc. His partner was forced to pilot solo. She lasted 14 minutes, and barely escaped with her life. There have been others, but none as long,” Winter’s rundown was clinical, “Five years ago, when the breach quieted; when Knifehead was defeated. Blake Belladonna solo piloted Ember Shroud for 72 minutes, getting her and her co-pilot to a shoreline. She had a 3-foot long piece of rebar impaling her abdomen, and she wasn’t certain whether her partner was dead or alive,”

Winter snapped her scroll shut, Ruby’s eyes wide.

“Yes, I respect Blake Belladonna,” Winter paused, an eyebrow jumping briefly, “That, and she’s much quieter about her rebellion than your sister,”

Ruby smiled lightly.

“I didn’t know that part,” she said, “About Blake solo piloting,”

Winter nodded.

“We’re not clear on how it was possible, only that the neural Drift was inexplicably intact for those 72 minutes, while Yang was no longer connected to the PONS,”

Ruby frowned, “What’s that mean?”

Winter picked lint from her uniform, “It means that Blake somehow managed to delve so far into the Drift, she could create and project Yang’s neural network in her own mind, using it to shield herself from the entire force of the Jaeger’s weight,” she looked at Ruby squarely, “It would be the equivalent of holding a bridge aloft by determination alone. It shouldn’t have been possible,”

Ruby felt her insides glow, pride and awe warming familiar and comfortable.

“They don’t really talk about it,” Ruby finally responded after a while. The countryside flew by them, everything happening too quickly for Ruby to pin point the features clearly, “But they always seemed happy here, away from everything. I feel bad. Like I’m taking it away,”

Winter watched her with isolated interest.

“Ms. Rose,” she said, “Unless you activated the breach, your feelings are unfounded,”

The younger woman looked surprised, a small smile touching her lips.

“I guess you really tell it like it is, huh?”

Winter didn’t seem to deign this worthy of a reply, instead opening her scroll and continuing to work. Ruby smiled to herself. She kind of appreciated the woman’s style.

“So, when do we get to Russia?”

* * *

 

 **Then**  

 

Yang shifted her weight, craning her neck to try and glimpse the top of the Shatterdome.

“Well that’s pretty humbling,” she muttered to herself.

The Shatterdome was a rough-hewn fortress. It had been made out of shipping containers pulled apart and welded back together into a gigantic, sky-scraping behemoth of ugly, twisted metal. The Vladivostok Shatterdome was an architectural cachophany of bulky function. Most impressive, though, was the massive central structure that served as the garage and domicile of the Jaegers.

“Lieutenant, if you’ll follow me,” Winter crisped, “Reception is this way,”

Yang nodded, following the corporal’s smart stride into the hangar, silvery white hair trimmed to her jawline fluttering in the breeze. It was with awe Yang noted it; this place was big enough to house its own breezes. The inside of the hangar took her breath away.

Jaegers. They were monsters of human will incarnate. They stood in dispersed pieces; suspended from cranes; half-constructed on platforms; but Yang could see what they would become. Metallic defiance of a civilization unwilling to go without a fight. Desire flamed in her chest as she walked. Need and want, rolling competitively through her rib cage.

They were trying to create a way to punch a Grimm in the face.

And damned if Yang didn’t want to be the woman behind that fist.

Grimm.

They had first been called ‘Monster’; ‘Dinosaur’ in San Francisco. ‘Kaiju’ when spotted off the coast of Japan. ‘Strange beast’ the Japanese had called it. Then, after Sydney, the name ‘Grimm’ had stuck as the world realized they wouldn’t be going away.

Yang’s eyes roved over a football field-sized hand. She recalled the newsreels with a grimace. San Fran in 2013. She’d been in one of the F-22 jets they had scrambled to cover the nuclear missile carrier that sixth day. The Grimm had plowed a three mile wide, 35 mile long path through San Francisco all the way to Oakland. Two armies and tens of thousands of people, dead. She still remembered the chilling crawl up her spine when six months later, Manila fell to another Grimm. Four months, Cabo. The United Nations came together to form the Pan Pacific Defense Corps and resigned itself to the phyrric realization that nuclear missiles were the only things capable of taking the creatures out.

After Sydney in 2014, Yang had been called into her commander’s office after a strange new battalion-wide physical assessment. The two figures behind him had spoken words she’d never heard before, and would never forget.

Jaeger Academy. Mark-1. Neural load.

Drift Compatibility.

She hadn’t even packed, just nodded, shot a text to her sister, and jumped into a Blackhawk bound for Russia.

“Yang?”

“Holy shit, it’s Yang Xiao Long,”

“Look, they got Yang!”

She tore her eyes away from the mechanized giant, turned, and realized a small following of hangar technicians had pressed a daring distance closer to her. Her stomach dropped slightly. She cleared her throat and shot them a smile, waving.

“Great job you guys are doing,” she said, not breaking stride. Winter looked back and blanched. Yang kept on, nodding at the personal scrolls discretely produced and aimed at her. The voices grew a little louder in their muttering, ripples of a chain reaction as people passed the word on that Yang Xiao Long had come to the Shatterdome.

“Yang, are you here for the Academy?”

“Is it a PR thing?”

“Yang, can you sign this?”

“She’s taller than I thought,”

Winter’s clean stride quickened, her annoyance clear. She pushed through a double door, the crowd following faithfully. Yang made it through the entrance, and Winter had apparently had enough.

“To your posts!” She snapped at the crew, the military ring of her voice reminding them of where they were and who, exactly, they had just stalked 200 feet.

Yang looked up, finding herself the center of attention to nearly forty sets of turned faces, the most prominent being Colonel Ironwood at a center podium, midsentence and unamused. Yang drew tall, hand rising to the air with her smile, “Sorry about that, Sir,”

Ironwood leaned back into the microphone.

“As I was saying,” he said, “You all have been endorsed by your home countries and come together now in the interest of global security under a banner of international peace. There will be no hostility between nations over old grudges. Compared to the threat we face now, those disagreements are weighed as petty. Your leaders have all agreed,” his low voice was a drone of authority, “You are the finest personnel capable of Drift in the world. You will be trained and weeded out in order to become this planet’s only defense,”

He paused, letting the message trickle through the stillness.

“The official language on base will be English in order to reduce confusion. Your handlers will translate if necessary. Your handlers also have your itinerary and room assignments,”

Yang leaned toward Winter and whispered too lowly into her ear, “I didn’t get one of those,”

Winter didn’t jerk away, but Yang could tell by the sudden stiffening of her shoulders that she had wanted to, “I sent it to you last week,”

Yang was about to reply, but then she looked up. And stared.

Leaning against a pillar, arms folded over her chest, was Circe. An Enchantress. Yang was not a romantic. She liked to credit herself as being a pragmatist. But this girl had hair deeper than black; it was the color of the sky between the stars. It curled and waved, dodging order and light. Her face was too pretty to be a genetic accident. Like someone, somewhere, possibly dozens of someones, had been deprived of beauty just to lend it all to this girl. Her eyes roved curiously over the speaking colonel, but touched more frequently on the others littered through the room.

Yang had never seen a color so hypnotizing. It was a startling honey; burnished gold; a promise of trapping a would-be gazer into the amber and fossilizing for thousands of years. It was sudden, and punched into her chest with the force of a freight train, but Yang needed to hear her voice.

Wanted to see her face change, split, smile, frown, twist. Wanted to know what things could be done, what words could be said, to get her to make those expressions.

Because the girl was looking at her now, drawn to the gaze already on her. And Yang had seen pretty girls before. She’d been with beautiful women. But this one leveled her with just a millimeter of an eyebrow raise.

It nearly buckled her knees.

Yang couldn’t stop herself from winking and looking away, her heart beating too hard for just an eye exchange. She pushed down the need to look again, to check and see if the girl took it the right way, if it cracked into the cool countenance. Yang nearly rolled her eyes at herself. She was second-guessing a wink. What was wrong with her? Duty before libido.

Colonel Ironwood cleared his throat, wrapping up his brief.

“I won’t conduct a back brief in the interest of time, so I’ll reiterate. This week will be standard trials and the physical, followed by the Kwoon rounds. After partner selection, we’ll share itineraries with who makes it,”

“Dismissed,”

Yang looked to the pillar again, her Goddess gone.

“PT is set for 05,” Winter’s brittle voice stabbed, “Uniform is PTU’s you’ll find in your barracks. Breakfast at 08, physical at 09, lunch, and then your day is yours,”

Yang shook herself, “Psh,” she responded airily, “Obviously. I was listening,”

Winter glared at her, hands behind her back.

“Is that so. Which way is the barracks, Lieutenant?”

Yang paused, glancing to the four doors available. She smirked, stepping to just inside Winter’s personal space, “You know. Why don’t you show me? Seems a lot more practical,”

Winter’s cheeks actually filled out in a blush, eyes casting over with panic for a fraction of a second. Another second passed, and she jerked backwards. Her blood-suffused ears ruined the magnificent glower she shot Yang.

“I’ve sent you a map. If you can’t find it, your name is on the door. Good evening, Lieutenant Xiao Long,”

With a spin on her heel, the girl strode out of the room. Yang chuckled to herself. She wasn’t being malicious. The corporal hadn’t even shook her hand in the Blackhawk, professionalism ironed into the very starch of her posture. It was a chew toy Yang couldn’t help but tease.

Yang pulled air in, letting it fill out her lungs as she looked around, hands joining to stretch over her head. Somehow, she could still smell the sea. This place tasted like salt and electricity; a buzzing, panicky flavor. It left a tickle in her fingers, a crawl in her spine.

She exhaled, snapping her arms down from the luxurious extension. A few lingering candidates shot her alarmed looks before returning focus to their handlers.

Yang wrinkled her nose while she thought, hands on her hips.

“Now. Where to find food,” she mused.

* * *

 

The first two days had been brutal.

Winter had warned her that Week Zero was planned to be taxing. Yang had waved her off, morally opposed to anyone who used the word ‘taxing’ instead of ‘hard as shit’.

She was a good enough soldier to be in the right place at the right time, in the right uniform. Everything went to shit after that. Forty candidates were pushed through time trials, obstacle courses, agility and accuracy tests, max weight assessments, and even coherency checks. Never in her life did Yang think she’d be Romanian deadlifting at the same time as singing her multiplication tables to the tune of Mary Had A Little Lamb.

It was without pause, without stops, and without water.

Grueling.

Yang loved every minute. The only thing she regretted was not being able to catch sight of the beautiful mystery girl she’d seen earlier. The pace was too intense for her to do anything but focus on willing down the lactic acid scorching her legs. No wonder they scheduled breakfast after this, and not before.

By the time 07 rolled around, she could have cried from happiness. Her entire body was leaden, the fibers of every muscle crying their own individual scream of agony. Air had never before been in such short supply.

In her own quarters, she collapsed in the shower, folding down without an ounce of dignity. Yang laughed, on her ass and stark naked, facing the spray. She’d missed the clean satisfaction of testing the limits of her own body. Dressing and continuing on, she could only hope the next day would be better.

It wasn’t.

It was the same. Same tests, quizzes, exercises, everything. And then came the medical physical. Yang shuddered to remember. Her patented ‘what? No dinner first?’ joke had lost its sheen after the ninth delivery and a spinal tap.

It got better after the third day. Partly because the scientific sadists seemed to be satisfied with the data they had collected and left the candidates to a more conventional training session. But mostly because Yang got lost in the Shatterdome.

Whether she missed a left turn, or should have taken the stairs, she didn’t know. But now it seemed like fate had reached out and yanked on her ear until it lead her here. Here, where Circe was tucked into the corner of what looked like a lounge, a book on her lap and peace in her shoulders.

She looked up at Yang’s presence in the doorway.

Static had shocked the blonde to her core at the discovery. Yang tightened hand on the doorway.

“Hi, I’m Yang,” she blurted out, “I’m super fucking lost, but my handler might actually have an aneurism if I ask her to help me again. Where are we?”

The girl’s vivid golden eyes peered at her; laughed at her, her mouth not matching. Yang breathed into the beating air. The seated girl smoothed her hand down the center of her book, holding the page.

“As far as I know, we’re in the Vladivostok Shatterdome,”

Her voice, her _voice!_ God, what a voice. It was higher than Yang had expected, clear and light. But with gravity deep as the echoes of church bells. Control curved every corner, no syllable undisciplined to the svelte tones. She had a slight, hard to place accent, but spoke in perfect English.

Yang didn’t try to trap the laugh she let loose, eyes sparkling. Delighted.

“If you’re wrong, we’re both fucked,” she grinned, wolfish and playful, “Which, I might not mind,” she flickered over the girl’s form, pointed.

Circe’s eyebrow shot up, Yang’s breathe hitching at the unruffled surprise, praying, hoping, wanting. The black curtain of her hair shifted over slim shoulders as the girl tipped her head.

“The past couple days haven’t been enough for you?” she asked, dry melody and flat merriment, “I’d have thought most people here were tired of being screwed by now,”

Yang’s entire body laughed. Her insides danced with pleasure. The sort of pleasure you found when something you hoped desperately for, wound up exceeding all expectations.

She shoved off the doorframe and powered into the room like a restless wind. Smooth steps saw her falling onto the opposite side of the couch, one leg curled to allow her body to turn and face the other occupant. The girl gave a feline blink of tolerance, echoes of a laugh tucked into the corners of those beautifully-formed eyes.

“Let me guess,” she said, “American?”

Yang grinned.

“I’ll try not to take offense to that,” she responded, arm throwing over the couch’s back. Something struck her then, “Wait. Do you know who I am?”

It was honest, and clear, and not at all conceited. The girl ticked an eyebrow.

“From the way you shouted it, I’m guessing… Yang?” she said, irony loud in the single syllable.

Yang looked surprised; felt a thrill, “I don’t usually have to say my full name,” she said. Shortened, frowned. Rolled her lilac eyes, smiling fully, “Wow, am I a douche or what? Happy to be here, the full name’s Yang Xiao Long, narcissist extraordinaire,” she gave a self-deprecating bow of her head.

The girl breathed through her nose. Yang tried not to imagine a laugh slipping through her fingers. Mourned it anyway. Circe fixed her with a forgiving look, Yang’s heart stuttering.

“Blake,” the girl wryed, “Blake Belladonna,”

She actually held a hand out, and Yang took it before she could get nervous. Her mind flickered, wanting to turn Blake’s hand over and look at the rough patches she could feel on the palm. She let go after a second too long.

“Nice to meet you, Blake Belladonna,” Yang said, grin firm and infectious, “What do you think of the Russian Radisson?”

Blake’s lips bowed; threatened a smile.

“Strange. And getting stranger,” the rest of her thoughts died in her mouth, her head swiveling to the sound of footsteps in the hallway. Yang looked, Ironwood’s expansive stature appearing in the lounge.

“Lieutenant Xiao Long, Segen Belladonna, good evening” Colonel Ironwood said, voice naturally too harsh in the already rough bounce of the cast-iron building’s construction.

They both stood, positions of attention half-hearted and flagging. Ironwood waved, dismissing the obviously disingenuous respect. They both relaxed, weight shifting.

“Good evening, Colonel,” Blake said.

Ironwood nodded. He looked to Yang and narrowed his eyes.

“Lieutenant. It would be wise to carry your scroll with you. You’ve been ordered to report to my office,”

Yang bristled. The scroll was a dust-light technology piece of metal whose basic function, if she understood it correctly, was to record everything the candidates did, said, heard, or thought of doing. She’d thrown it on her bunk after considering the merits of her bed versus a garbage disposal.

Apparently it was also a dog whistle.

“Sorry, Sir,” Yang said.

Ironwood waited a beat for some kind of explanation, and realized none was forthcoming. His face didn’t change.

“Your presence here has made it to the news in spite of the PPDC’s efforts to suppress such information. The public now knows of the Jaeger program. You have received what can only be called fan mail, and your personal communications are flooding. We have intercepted both and don’t intend to pass them onto you. Now,” he broke his steamroll for maximum dramatics, “Did you inform the press?”

Yang received the information with cool detachment, quelling the barbed wire unspooling rapidly in her chest, digging tight around her ribcage, “No, Sir. I was told not to,”

“Indeed,” he said, flat and dispassionate. Steel eyes narrowed, “It bears mentioning, Lt Xiao Long, that your presence here is due to your ability and character displayed in combat. Not your personal image or 3rd party fame. I would appreciate if these events were never repeated. Am I understood?”

Yang’s jaw jumped, eyes boring into the iron blue of the colonel’s, mindful of the girl at her side. It was patently bad form for superiors to ream people out in front of peers. This was punishment.

“If you’d point out where I was in the wrong, I’d be happy to correct myself. Sir,”

The man frowned deeper into his sunken cheeks.

“Your celebrity status has no place in the Shatterdome,”

Yang nearly rolled her eyes. Was this prick serious?

“Yes, Sir,”

Ironwood nodded, his message apparently conveyed. He straightened and turned, the women watching him stride off. Yang breathed harshly through her nose, rage thrumming in her veins. She looked away and noticed Blake’s eyes locked on her, a sparkling kind of enjoyment in the tip of her head.

“What?” Yang said, her temper quailing.

“Nothing,” Blake sent a curling look to the blonde, “I’ve just never met anyone who could make ‘Yes, Sir’ sound so much like, ‘Fuck you’. American training, I assume?”

Yang’s anger went out like a flame under wet sand. Her grin blew huge across her lips, lilac eyes rolling, “Nah,” she replied, “That’s natural talent. Didn’t you hear I was kind of a big deal?”

“Maybe in America,”

“As opposed to-?” Yang’s smile softened, openness in her eyes. Blake tipped her head.

“Israel,”

Yang’s eyebrows shot up. Blake shrugged.

“I was shuttled between my parents growing up. Canada, Israel. The Israelis won the citizenship bidding war,”

“Ah, I see. That explains the accent and,” Yang gave the girl’s svelte, standing form a once-over, “the… jujitsu?”

“Krav maga,” she looked wholly amused.

Yang huffed, “Of course. Israeli Defense Force. That’s what you IDF guys do. Ninjas of kill-a-man-with-his-own-teacup, and blackest-ops sneaky squirrel shit, right?”

Blake blew air through her nose, taking her seat once more. Yang followed her, an elbow on the back of the couch, planting a fist on her temple as she looked at Blake.

“Well not anymore,” Blake’s voice coiled, “I was just informed there’s been a massive security breach. Who knew all it took to bring down a global organization’s confidential intel was a rabid fanbase?”

Yang’s eyes flashed.

“So you do know who I am,” she said, victory in her tone.

Blake lifted an eyebrow, a corner of her mouth accidentally coming with it.

“A vague recollection. Might have seen you in line at the bank, right?”

“Yep. That’s where I usually trawl for women. They’re the ones with the money, you know,”

“Women?”

“Is that a problem?”

Blake scoffed, “Since I’m not in the habit of hypocrisy, no,” Yang’s chest thrilled through, Blake casting an unreadable look to the blonde, “I only thought I would have heard about the US’ defender of kittens stuck in trees being gay,”

Yang’s eyes didn’t budge from their lightness, but her tone deepened playfully.

“And still, you refuse to acknowledge that you stalk me,”

Blake’s eye roll was monumental, blank and beautiful. It wasn’t fair for someone to be so overwhelmingly pretty.

“Your face is on television, even in Canada,” she returned Yang’s scanning look, head to feet, “Funny. You’re smaller in person,”

Yang’s laugh ruptured the warmed, tightened air they had created. She dropped her fist and threw her head back, her chuckling a glitter of echoing mirth against the grimy walls. Blake’s eyes roved over the phenomenon, unreadable and feminine. She made Yang’s head go light, like the honey irises could see right through her. Yang collected herself, the room seeming brighter than when she had walked in.

“I heard PPDC enlistments have gone up 40% since you signed your contract publicly,” Blake commented, smooth and wondering.

“42%,” Yang replied absently, resting her chin on the lofted forearm. Blake’s lips flickered a smile. Yang wished it would just catch and hold for a moment. The brunette only held the studying gaze. Yang chortled.

“You’re not intimidated by me,” she accused. Blake blinked, tipping her head like the thought had never occurred to her.

“And why would I be intimidated by you?” Blake responded, “The combat rounds are next week. There’s no use in being scared of someone I’ll get to see on their back,”

Yang laughed once, loud and derisive.

“Me? You think someone’s going to get me on my back?” she gave an arrogant flip of her hair, “Hate to break it to you, but I spent four years being the USAF kickboxing women’s champ, and you think someone’s going to take me down?”

Blake’s eyes devoured.

“Not someone,” she said, lips curved enough to wrap Yang around her little finger. Blake watched her words sink into Yang’s brain. She gave a small tip of her head, Yang’s smile bright and awed. Blake collected her book and stood, looking down her straight nose and offering a small smile.

The movement of her lips had been small, but the amber of her eyes shimmered with fire. It struck with the speed of a cobra, venom coating slow and life changing. Yang was paralyzed. Blake’s carriage was purebred aristocrat.

“Goodnight, Yang,”

“Night, Blake,”

Yang watched her go, smile gentle as a breeze. Blake walked away, and Yang swore every step against the iron grating timed to the beat of her heart.

* * *

 

Forty cadets formed a tight rank and file in the training hall. Mats, gym equipment, weapons on racks, and a mirror wall littered the area in precise haphazardness.

Colonel Ironwood paced in front of the arranged bodies.

“At ease,”

Forty figures shifted to stand shoulder width, hands behind their backs. More importantly, they could now move their heads. Ironwood straightened.

“Each one of you has been selected from across the globe because you are the best. Whatever competition that entailed, however you came to be standing here, it ends now,” he waited a beat, his words sinking into his audience, “You have seven months in this Academy. Seven months to learn everything you can about these machines, to perfect yourselves physically and mentally to ensure they’re the deadliest force on the planet. But your seven months start only after this week. Because this week, you must find your co-pilot,”

He swept an arm to the room behind him, a line of people standing near one wall with clipboards.

“These are your evaluators and graders. They will be measuring interaction and staying onboard for training. They’ll be judging the Kwoon battles. Doctor Ozpin?”

A thin, shorter man with prematurely gray hair stepped from the wall. He had ridiculously small glasses perched on his nose. Yang would have bet 20 dollars she could replace the lenses with quarters. He peered over the glasses with bright eyes, but his voice came coolly.

“As you’ve been briefed individually, the Kwoon combat rounds are a system our researchers have developed in order to find and finalize partners. You have all tested high in Drift compatibility, so the next step lies in the subconscious,” he stepped backwards and motioned for two demonstrators.

Yang felt her eyebrows raise when Melanie and Miltia Malachite were introduced. They stepped forward, a pair of identical twins, looking bored and agile. They each grabbed a bo staff from a rack and took places on the mat facing each other.

Dr. Ozpin cleared his throat.

“Now, as you’ll see, the purpose of a Kwoon battle is not to defeat your opponent. Instead, it is to find like-mindedness. Instinctive similarity. This is done in a four-point spar. Now, if you please,” he nodded to the two.

Yang watched as Melanie or Milita nodded back. And then engaged in the weirdest round of combat Yang had ever seen. It looked like a dance of some kind. Miltia would swing, Melanie dodging to drop and spin a kick to where Miltia had already jumped. It looked choreographed; rehearsed. Like they were simply going through the motions. Yang frowned, the corner of her eye seeing similar dissatisfaction on her peers’ faces.

But it wasn’t a parlor trick. Yang looked harder. Melanie was breaking a sweat, rapid-fire kicks blocked by a flourish of Miltia’s staff, the woman planting it for leverage to jump into a flying kick Melanie dropped under, seemingly without looking.

They went on in an explosion of frenetic movement, and then froze. Yang blinked. Melanie had stopped her bo staff directly on top of Miltia’s head centimeters before it hit. Doctor Ozpin cleared his throat, stepping back into view.

“That’s one point. Thank you for that,” he nodded at the women, the pair looking unmoved but compliant. Ozpin turned back to the waiting cadets.

“Now, to reiterate, this is not a spar for damage. Or victory. It’s about compatibility. Please see your handlers for further details, they’ve been briefed by our science team,” he pushed his glasses up, staring at them.

“Oh!” he chuckled strangely, “Yes, right. Er- you may go. Uh, fall out or however you will,”

Yang wanted to snort. The term ‘military science’ should have counted as an oxymoron. A few cadets shot each other concerned looks, some cautiously stepping backwards out of formation. Yang scoffed, crossing a mat and walking away to where Winter was glaring at the gray-haired man. The corporal hated unprofessionalism, but nothing so much as elected inefficiency.

Not to mention, poor manners.

“On the agenda?” Yang asked, immediately raring to go. Watching the Malachite sisters had put an itch between Yang’s shoulders. Winter looked away from Ozpin’s mousy posture in disgust.

“Yes. The science team has tasked me with questioning your own impressions for the first round,” Winter held her hands behind her back, “If you’ve found anyone you’d suspect could be a suitable fit for you. The team will collect data and use it to further the search amongst cadets in later rounds. Does anyone come to mind?”

Yang’s grin was monumental, Winter immediately bracing.

“I know just the one,” she rolled, reaching for the hem of her long sleeved shirt. She peeled it off, leaving her in a tank top and the loose, cargo-style pants issued to them. She tossed the shirt to the ground, smirking as Winter’s eyes traced the curling ink over her right arm, the ‘O NEG’ etched over her left pectoral. By the time Winter had found her eyes again, Yang was preening like a cat. She let it go, conscious enough of the other handlers around them.

She liked Winter. Liked messing with her, but liked her in a professional sense, too. She’d never confirmed she was related to the global dust conglomerate, but had flatly refused to be referred to as ‘Schnee’. Yang respected a woman making her own name.

Yang reached behind Winter to pluck a bo staff from the collection along the wall, “Happen to know the Israeli handler?”

Winter blinked, tapping at her handheld shortly. She glanced up, expression empty.

“Segen Belladonna has already requested you,”

Yang’s stomach fluttered as she hefted the bo staff between her hands, testing the weight. She stepped backwards, onto the nearby mat.

“Hm. Winter, do you think an invite to beat the hell out of me counts as a date?”

“No,” her handler pointedly avoided looking at her.

“Harsh,” Yang sighed, spinning the staff, “I’d have tried to buy her a protein shake dinner. Maybe see if we could have fought by candlelight. Watched an old movie about the Israeli-American conflict. You know, romance,”

“I think the movie’s a little contrived, but I’d be an idiot to turn down a shake dinner,”

Yang’s smirk flourished into a grin, turning around.

Blake stepped forward, bo staff held light and parallel to the ground. Incorrectly, Yang noted mildly. She wondered how many people would underestimate Blake for it today. If the calm set to her shoulders was anything to go by, it was going to be a lot. And entirely intentional.

Already, Blake was clever. Strategic.

“You sure?” Yang spun the staff over her wrist, laying it over her arm and behind her shoulder. The low ready, “I’m a lot to handle,”

Blake’s eyes flashed, planting her weapon next to her foot, her other sliding backwards to settle into a side-stance.

“You let me worry about that,” she replied, “Besides, it wouldn’t be the worst thing to end a first date on your back,”

“Would it be weird to say you’re turning me on?”

Winter’s whistle blast was pointed. Immediately, Blake kicked at her bo staff, Yang reflexively downward blocking. Blake took it back and thrust with the velocity of a viper. Yang spun, dodging out of the way and swinging her staff like a baseball bat at Blake’s head. The woman dropped to the ground, her bo flying at Yang’s ankles. Yang instinctively jumped, twirling her staff and bringing it back down over her head with momentum and might on her side.

Blake had already back-flipped upright, her staff flicking to both hands and above her head in a block. Yang gave a grunt of effort, and felt a painful vibration echo into her palms at the sudden stop to her blow. Still pushing, Yang met Blake’s eyes.

Electric.

Blake huffed.

And ground her staff sideways, her hands overlapping Yang’s weapon as they met and dropping to the ground, the force enough of a pull against Yang’s constant push that Yang instinctively locked her arms. Blake shoved to one side, tipping Yang off balance and yanking backwards. The staff came out of her hands easily, Yang stumbling to the side, weaponless.

“One-Zero!” Winter announced, “Reset,”

Blake smirked, tossing Yang her staff back. The blonde growled as she snatched it out of the air. Her heart was beating rapidly, the pure joy of a challenge thrumming through her veins.

Yang spun the staff experimentally, disliking the reach but loving how Blake mimicked her, switching hands and spinning lazily behind her back. Krav maga her ass. Blake would be lethal with a paper clip.

Yang jumped forward, her bo staff aimed for a lunge straight to Blake’s abdomen. The brunette spun her staff, smacking the wood away and launching into a rhythmic overhead/underhand series of hits utilizing both ends of her staff Yang then blocked in each turn. She didn’t so much watch Blake’s staff as her torso. No matter what the hands and feet were doing, it was hard to move your core.

The blonde knew Blake would have read her gaze, knowing Yang was planning something. Blake stepped backwards. Or so Yang thought. Blake stepped back, bending her knee only slightly, before a powerful jump off the same leg helped her get airborne, twisting her body and bringing that leg around in a whip. Yang dodged backwards, a hand catching Blake’s foot and jerking her off-center. Yang flicked the bo upwards, the staff awkward and too long for real control.

Blake had already planted the bo staff to create a new fulcrum to the ground, Yang’s wild hit missing completely. Blake corkscrewed, eyes never leaving Yang as her body rotated to allow her to land on her feet once more, staff suddenly appearing near Yang’s ear, the blonde having barely moved out of the way.

She grabbed her staff at the ¾ line and swung at Blake’s knee, instantly blocked, only to spin the staff in her hands and try the other side, Blake blocking again. Yang started up a rapid-fire barrage of strikes to the head, knee, abdomen, foot, anything. Every time, Blake was there to parry and try to slip in a thrust, Yang twisting out of the way easily.

It was hard to move the torso.

For some people.

Blake apparently realized this, as her quick, jab-like thrusts suddenly whirlwinded into utilizing the staff’s whole length, Yang ducking as an end came flying to her head. Just in time to see the other end slide through Blake’s hands and tap at her weight-bearing knee. Her collapse was immediate, as well as the hand she flagged up to her face in time to catch Blake’s finishing strike.

The staff met her palm nearly gently, the back of her hand bumping her temple. Blake’s smile was wild, on full display. Yang’s chest heaved, her eyes alight.

“Two-Zero! Reset,”

Yang gripped the staff, pulling herself up and into Blake’s personal space on the way. Blake never flinched. Yang smirked, stepping back to her place. Blake watched her carefully, twirling her staff with both hands and cocking an eyebrow in challenge.

Yang wanted to laugh. Instead, she looked to the staff in her hands distastefully. Blake knew how to play her already. She was, very publicly, a kickboxer. Jujitsu and muay tai came with MMA territory, weapons included. But hand-to-hand, close-range, melee fighting was her home field advantage. Whereas Krav maga was the martial art of ‘how to kill your opponent with basically anything’. She’d run Yang into the ground from a distance.

Yang gave the staff a little toss, her eyes fixing on Blake’s interested observance. She brought her knee up, and slammed the bo across her thigh, the 2-inch thick wood snapping in half. Yang grinned, hefting the two hanbos she had just created. She didn’t bother to check if this was allowed, as Blake’s eyes burned, her stance deepening directly before she lunged.

Yang blocked a swing with one baton, belting out a strike with her other. She laughed aloud. _This_ was more like it.

From then on, it was even-grounded warfare. Blake would swing, and Yang would block. Yang got inside for a rapid, double strike, and Blake beat them both down. Yang felt her muscles burn with exertion. She was bending, twisting, spinning, and swinging with everything she had. She lost her sense of time, relishing in the heat.

And then she knew she’d gotten the upper hand.

Blake wanted her backpedalling and out of baton-reach. So Yang reeled back in a feint, expecting Blake’s follow up blow. Yang blocked, dropping her hanbo and clamping down on the staff, Blake’s eyes narrowed as she caught Yang’s reciprocating strike with a free hand at her jaw. Her lips quirked. Yang winked.

“Two-One!” Winter called, “Lieutenant Xiao Long, would you care to replace your weapon?”

Yang didn’t leave Blake’s eyes, Winter’s voice edged and irritated.

“She’ll be fine,” Blake replied, expression bright and dazzling as Yang released her bo.

“Very well,” Winter finally gave, “Reset,”

It was hell. It was heaven. It was a dream of a fight. Yang gave everything she had, reactions lightening quick and burning her synapses. Every fighting instinct she had, she gave into, pulling straight from her gut. She thought in flashes, not sentences or words. The crack of wood on wood wasn’t nearly as loud as her own breath in her lungs, her heart a wild tattoo. All Yang could see was Blake; her hands, staff, sweat, eyes. God, Yang might be in love.

And then she realized she was moving too quickly forward on a jab, and it instantly clicked that the fight was over one way or another. No sooner did it occur to her that she’d made a mistake did Blake have a hand on Yang’s tank top, one end of her staff slipping under Yang’s stepping foot. In a split second, Yang flipped, her back hitting the mat hard. She spun out a lash of a leg sweep, Blake’s first flash of victory dipping out of her eyes as she went down.

Yang nearly laughed at herself.

Yeah. Great. Grapple the Krav maga babe.

Blake coiled, reached, and-

“Three-One! Final score,”

Yang turned her head, Winter’s dour expression sideways in her view. She looked like she was barely containing the need to roll her eyes before a clipboard holder was taking her attention. Yang looked up, Blake’s shadow passing over her as she leaned up on her elbow.

The brunette had an open smile painting her lips, breath dragging just as much as Yang’s.

“But nice try,” the girl said, delight in every syllable. Yang couldn’t stop smiling.

“I don’t care what any of these fucking geeks say. Please, God, be my partner,”

Blake’s head tipped backwards in a laugh, getting to her feet and extending her hand down. Yang took it.

Upright once again, Yang caught her breath, not letting go of Blake’s hand.

“I’m serious,” she smiled, Blake flushed and phenomenally beautiful, “I want you,” Yang leaned, her head lowering, nearly tapping the girl’s in the only move that felt right to her. Magnetic.

“Don’t try to tell me you didn’t feel that,” she said, lilac crystals burning, “That was better than sex,”

Blake smiled, barely controlled but so graceful, “I felt it,” she said, soft and secret and too good to be true. Her smile cracked wider, “Keep it in your pants, won’t you?”

Yang threw her head and laughed.

“Already concerned with what’s in my pants?” she gathered herself and smirked, “Knew we were destined for each other. My number one fan,”

“Stop, you’re too humble,” Blake’s tone shifted laconic, “I might fall in love,”

“Lt. Xiao Long, a word?” Winter was standing next to Yang, an elegant, oiled man at her side, his eyes beady on Blake. He said something in roiling, clicking, Hebrew, Blake nodding. She squeezed Yang’s hand, a feeling in her eye as she dropped it.

Yang watched her step away, snapping a look to Winter.

“I want her,”

Winter nodded, apparently not at all surprised. She consulted a few papers in her hand.

“Fine. But in the interest of research and thoroughness, you must try at least two more partners out,”

Yang rolled her shoulders, pretending to deliberate in distain. Winter practically raised hackles. She smirked, lolling her head.

“I’m kidding, Schnee,” Yang stretched her tired muscles out, willing the acidic build up away, “Point me and I’ll fight, just remember you promised,”

“I did not promise,”

“Who am I flirting with before the geeks give me Blake?” Yang plucked a paper from her hand, Winter immediately taking it back.

“No _not_ flirt with the other candidates,” Winter grit. She didn’t seem able to stop herself from flitting her eyes over Yang sweating in her tank top. She jetted air through her nose, “At the very least, don’t flirt with the Russians or the Chinese. They’re the primary funding force,”

Yang grinned.

“Got it. No piroshky, no kung pao,”

Winter looked close to exploding, her eyes closing momentarily. Yang hummed in appreciation.

“So who’s next?”

Winter glanced again to the papers.

“Doctors Ozpin and Goodwitch are satisfied with Ms. Belladonna, Doctor Port would like to see you spar the French candidate, Amelie Lacroix, and Doctor Oobleck chose Japan’s Kiryuuin Satsuki,”

Yang nodded, stretching some more.

“Any of them dudes?”

Winter looked at her, blank and deadpan.

“You’re asking if Amelie Lacroix is a man?”

Yang shrugged, “It’s not Amelie’s fault the French are so... French. I’m cool going either way, just wondering,” she stopped, reconsidered, “Well, I don’t go either way,” she chortled to herself, “Know what I mean, Winter?”

The specialist straightened as best she could, her pale skin a traitor to her own blood.

“I’ll be setting up the bout soon. Please rest,”

Yang laughed.

“Sure thing,”

Yang smirked to herself as Winter marched off, shaking out her arms and catching her ankle in a quad-stretch. She looked around at the various fights; shouts, whistles, and the high, reedy crack of wood bouncing off the walls. There were about four going on all at once.

She twisted, her spine popping. Yang stopped, her eyes landing on a dark head of tied midnight. Blake was nodding politely, her handler patting a tall, blonde-haired man on the back. Yang quirked an eyebrow. She’d never understood guys who needed to take off their shirts to do any kind of physical activity.

Still, she stood back and admired the scene.

Blake really was beautiful. But there was something so much more magnetic about her than the flawlessness of her features. Blake had a weight; a gravity; an icy kind of fire that lived behind her eyes. She was quick, and sarcastic, and kind. Yang felt herself smile at no one, Blake perfectly still but somehow outwardly uncomfortable.

In an instance of luck or divine intervention, Blake looked up, straight at Yang.

And smiled.

Briefly, just a flash, but a pleased, delicate bloom of dye at the edges of amber eyes. Yang was a goner. She smiled and shook herself.

Blake Belladonna.

The name felt like honey on her tongue.

* * *

 

They gave her Blake.

A list was published and distributed to the handlers, information trickling down to the parties actually involved. Yang had immediately sought Blake out. They reintroduced themselves over a coffee and tea, respectively. Yang had buzzed with temperate satisfaction that Blake wasn’t simply witty. She was intelligent in a well-rounded sense.

She liked books and music, challenged the mechanics of philosophy as a passing hobby. Talking with her was fulfilling. Over the rest of the weekend, Yang met with Blake everyday and found out new things about her. Her favorite had been when Blake accompanied her to one of the gyms in the Shatterdome and showed her how to actually use a bo staff.

In a short two days, Yang learned the delightful complexities of Blake’s personality. But mostly, Yang realized how much comfort she could find in companionable silence. She’d never met someone who felt less of a need to fill a space with white noise. Yang spent a good couple hours marveling at how well matched they were.

It was during one of these introspective periods that Yang’s inkling was reinforced.

“What’s up, loves? I’m Lena!”

Yang smiled, Blake looking up and nodding welcome. The newly arrived British girl slid her tray across Yang, sticking her hand out cheerily. Yang took it, surprised at the firmness in the shake. The mess hall was a two-tiered echo chamber hewn out of the same wrought iron as the rest of the compound, cafeteria-style tables lining the room in neat rows.

“Yang Xiao Long,” the blonde nodded at Blake with pride, who closed her book out of politeness, “This is my new life partner, Ms. Israel 2014,”

Blake scoffed along to Lena’s clear, hearty laughter, rolling her eyes and holding her hand out, “Blake Belladonna, Israeli Defense Force, Engineering Division. Yang’s from the American Air Force. She flies,”

Lena smiled, all lightness and friendliness.

“I’m RAF myself! Mostly do test runs when I can though, fixed wing. None of that rotary wing nonsense,”

“Hear hear,” Yang nodded emphatically. Lena grinned.

“We’ll have to talk sometime, yeah? Wouldn’t want to bore your lovely other half with airframes and engines, godknows I’ve near brought Ame to tears already, poor thing. Have you seen her?”

Yang’s smile deepened as Blake’s eyebrows rose. Lena spoke a mile a minute and didn’t apparently have the human urge to breathe.

“Who?”

“Oh! Lord, sorry, here’s me jabbering on, and I haven’t even introduced you proper. Oh- there she is. Ame! Am, over here!”

Yang saw Blake nearly flinch at the sheer volume of Lena’s calls, her secondary offense of a dual-armed, standing wave drawing the attention of the entire mess. But it did the job.

A tall, slim woman glided to the table, her eyes half-lidded in irritation. Her eyebrows were amazing. Where did she even get lip liner in Vladivostok?

“Am, meet Blake and Yang!” Lena crowed. She flourished a hand, “Ladies, this is my partner, Amelie Lecriox. She’s a ballerina! Can you believe that? Not everyone’s military. Got a fair amount of athletes here, you know. Mad, eh?”

Lena breathed, smiling at the stiletto-figured woman.

“Your… partner?” Yang asked, eyes jumping between the two. Amelie’s expression didn’t so much as twitch.

“Trust me,” her thick accent melted out, “I was just as surprised as you are,” the woman set her lunch down next to Lena, mumbled something in French, and picked up her fork.

Blake coughed, Yang quirking an eyebrow. Blake sent her a _‘later’_ look, a grin behind her spoon. Yang smiled.

Drift Compatibility was a funny thing.

* * *

 

After the Kwoon trials and a room change, forty cadets had shifted down to twenty; ten Drift Compatible partners. They were told there would only be seven Jaegers made. Though seven didn’t sound like much, each Jaeger took around fifty billion US-equivalent dollars to manufacture.

True to the threat of refining partners’ Drift Compatibility, they gathering the now-cadets in a training hall. They were ushered onto classic ballpark bleachers, Yang sitting comfortable, arms splayed across the two seats on either side of her. Blake crossed her legs beside her partner, listening to the instructor as he pace in front of them.

“Now,” he said, “You have chosen your partners. You will next be assigned a Synchronization Training and Development course with your co-pilots. The Synchronization Training and Development classes are multifaceted and must be taken seriously, as it will be a shared strengthening of the neural handshake’s potential,”

Yang dipped her head, her lips murmuring at Blake’s ear.

“I can’t wait to share an STD with you,”

Blake had to cover her mouth, her shoulders spasming with a poorly concealed laugh. She gave a feeble attempt of a throat clear for shelter. The instructor stopped and glared in their general direction before carrying on. Blake kept her eyes forward, left hand slapping at Yang’s stomach.

“After which,” the instructor continued, “comes the technical courses surrounding G-Science, Jaeger engineering, and Drift science,” he nodded at himself. Turning, he produced a dust-tech stereo system.

“Today’s Synch Training maximizes physical coordination, and harmonious thought,” he opened a scroll and tapped a button. The stereo was quiet, but grew. It swelled out a structured, high brass intro. A string accompaniment joined the fray. Classical music.

“Ballroom dancing,” he said over the music, “Let’s begin, shall we?”

The pilots paused, half wondering if he was serious, the other half deciding he was stupid.

To everyone except Yang’s surprise, Blake stood first. It was palpably interesting. From the little interaction the rest of them had probably had with Blake, they most likely assumed her shy. The dark, mysterious quietness of her confused them.

But Yang knew better. Shyness was a side effect of cautious nerves; fearful reluctance. And there was never so far removed a concept as fear from Blake Belladonna. Blake was quiet not because of nerves, but due to a supreme, tranquil, confidence in what she could and could not do. She simply felt no need to prove any of it.

That, and she was a natural introvert. Yang smiled at her partner’s back.

Blake stepped forward. She turned and offered her hand to Yang, her movements smooth and sure of the blonde’s reach to meet her. Yang felt her grin spread to Blake, seemingly from the very contact of their hands.

It was autonomic for Yang to take the lead position, taller and less sure of doing everything backwards. Blake looked up at her through eyelashes thick as molasses, equally as syrupy in a slow drizzle of trust. Her hand slid up Yang’s shoulder, settled on the muscular join to her neck. Yang’s brain short-circuited, the pounding of her heart drowning out the downbeat of the music. She stepped off on the wrong foot, but Blake was ready to catch her fall.

She felt a slight pull, and Yang tumbled headlong into the infinitesimal joy in Blake’s eyes. The hand on her trapezius flexed slightly, and she stepped off the diving board. Blake tugged, and Yang followed, her mind clearing until the simple box step was easier than walking.

It was a fraction of an error, and Blake had stepped high, sweet and serene.

Yang’s smile twisted playful. She strengthened her hold around Blake’s hand, bore it a little higher, taking the weight. And glided. She stepped with Blake, a creature of movement and sleek grace, and felt her heart soar. Yang turned fast, pacing quicker, tighter.

Blake never missed a beat.

The hall-turned-ballroom had filled, and Yang realized they weren’t alone any longer when she needed to spin Blake to avoid a gingerly waltzing Sun and Neptune. Blake openly laughed, keeping time. She tipped her head, and Yang slowed them.

“You’re a very… physical person,” Blake’s tone was curious, “In an expressive sense,” she corrected, a lifted eyebrow warding off an inevitable innuendo.

Yang wrinkled her nose at the foil, but considered this, “I guess,” she shrugged, “I’ve never really been a words girl. Woman of action and all that,”

Blake laughed lightly.

“Makes sense,” she replied, taking a moment. When she made direct eye contact with Yang again, it was evaluative, “I’m a words girl,”

Yang’s eyebrows lifted, “A little vague for a words girl, then,”

A huff of a laugh.

“I like knowing,” she said carefully, “I can get in my own head sometimes, and my imagination is a scary place. Clarity. Honesty. Talking… is important to me,” Blake’s thumb swept a sooth a half an inch up Yang’s neck. She felt it shock all the way to her toes. Blake’s eyes soaked in Yang’s flickered smile, “I can learn to be more physical. It really won’t be difficult with you,” she said quietly, face changing to that lovely vulnerability.

“I’m asking if you can get used to telling me how you think and feel,” Blake said, “It probably won’t be comfortable, but-“

Yang stepped closer, jarring and a tiny bit invasive, Blake’s attempted apology dying. It was the first time Yang had seen the girl be anything but self-assured. For whatever reason, it made Yang want to kiss her quiet. The thought registered without influence, an unavoidable conclusion easily tucked away.

“Blake,” she said into the tender space between them, “I trust you. I think I’d have a harder time _not_ telling you everything I think or feel,” she readjusted, her entire forearm pressed to the small of Blake’s back. It was more of an embrace than a waltz position.

“If it’s important to you, it’s important to me. From here on out, okay?”

Blake blinked into the unfiltered light of Yang’s conviction. She smiled.

“Okay,”

* * *

 

The Drift.

A mind meld of two pilots. Two, because alone, a Jaeger was too heavy of a neural load. It was a channel; sharing memories, emotions, and instinct. Drifting created a joint headspace where communication, thought, and control were united completely. This was achieved through the PONS system, a revolutionary dust-light technology connection system.

The cadets were schooled through it for four straight days in mind-numbing five hour marathons at a time. There had only been one day worth remembering.

“Our studies are clear in the data collected from the Malachite twins; the number one cause for failure in a functioning algorithm-paired neural handshake is sexual discomfiture,” Dr. Port took every potentially fun syllable out of it, his baritone voice plain and admonishing, “We warn you that you must not try to control or judge the imagery you see while in the Drift. This is called the Modesty Reflex, and it is antithetical to the neural connection. Psycho-sexual embarrassment is unfortunately hard-wired into most societies,” he grumbled, holding his hands behind his back.

“It is as serious a variable in the Drifting function as Trust and Familiarity. Today, you will engage with your co-pilot and sort out these issues prior to entering the PONS lab. Do this now. Report back at 1900,”

Yang groaned. That meant they were skipping dinner.

She sighed, Blake looking her way and nudging her head in signal to lead the way out of the classroom. They meandered together quietly, winding up at their secret lounge. Yang strolled in, perching half way on top of the couch’s arm. Blake followed but didn’t sit. The room felt slightly ominous; like it could sense the uncomfortable nature of their assignment.

The blonde sucked in a breath, and plowed into the suddenly clumsy air. She’d never felt awkward around Blake, and she wasn’t about to start.

“I’ve had a threesome,” Yang counted off on her fingers, trying to remember, “I’ve been skinny dipping, I slept around for a while, uhm, I’ve had sex all over public places,” she crumpled her forehead, thinking hard, “On certain days, I kind of have a thing for being pushed around. Others, I like to do the pushing. Never had the misfortune of being with a dude, never sent nudes, never been choked,”

She nodded, satisfied. Her expectant look hooked around Blake’s belly and pulled. She stepped closer without thinking, Yang’s eyes bringing thoughts of hearths and heavy nights.

Blake hummed, “I had a boyfriend for a long time. Then a couple girls. The girls were more important, though,” she leveled Yang with a deep, sucking sort of look, “I’ve thought a lot about tying you up. And now I might think about choking you later. Not a lot after that,”

Yang’s breath caught in her throat, stunned.

“Are you fucking serious?”

Blake’s lips curled, the mystery shroud pulled up like a collar to protect her from Yang’s wide eyes. She sent her partner a droll, exasperated smile.

“I am kidding. But you’re beautiful, Yang,” she said, low and sweet and so unknowingly devastating. She lifted a hand, a single fingertip light in tracing the apple of Yang’s cheek, “I’d have to be blind not to see you. I’d have to be asexual not to think of you naked at least once,” she went light with gentle humor, “Twice, just to flatter you,”

Yang smiled in reflex, so breathless she couldn’t even laugh.

Her body was buzzing. She cleared her throat, caught Blake’s hand in both her own. Held it like a broken-winged bird.

“You do know you’re gorgeous too, right?”

Blake glanced at her, a little surprised. Yang mustered every sincerity she could stand. Blake made it easy, her eyes open and accepting of anything Yang was comfortable enough to give. Her expression cradled Yang’s heart. She felt her throat constrict and knew she was about to take this to a place Port probably hadn’t intended. Her thumb rolled over the delicate bones in Blake’s wrist.

“Listen,” Yang said, low and longing. Her eyes met Blake’s, full of that towering honesty Blake was so fond of, “I don’t know what it’s gonna be like in there, but I think you already know that I’m… crazy about you,”

Blake’s breath stilled. Yang smiled tightly up at her.

“I don’t mean to ruin anything, but I figured that one, you already know. And two, you were going to find out anyway,” she shrugged, “So I thought I’d tell you. Once,” she trailed off, quiet. Blake was still; a marble-carved look of disbelief frozen half way between conflict and pride. Yang smiled, still caressing the pale skin in her hands, “I don’t have to tell you I’m serious. But I will anyway. I’m fucking over the moon for you. I think about you so much, I can’t focus sometimes. We mess with each other, and we’ve got a duty, I get it. But. You just feel… so much bigger to me. Like it all can go to hell as long as I’d get to talk to you after breakfast everyday,”

Yang breathed.

Her blood felt hot in her veins, but it felt too good to finally pour out the simmering in her soul. Like if she held it in for a second longer, it would boil over and burn.

“And honestly?” she said, aware Blake hadn’t blinked the entire time she’d been speaking, “I think you’ve got it for me too,” her inhale was shaky, ground a lot less firm underneath her, “I mean, I hope you do,” she swallowed, “Do you?”

And it was all so classically Yang.

A cannonball into a pool without looking to check the depth; a rock climb to a peak you couldn’t see; playing chicken against someone composed only of adrenaline and stupid, lovely, beautiful courage. Her meaning thrilled deeper than her words, talks of moons and crushes. Blake could feel the imprint of a subterranean shift just underneath. Yang’s lyrics were topsoil over tectonic suggestion. There was so much more. But not yet. For now, it was moons and crushes.

Honest but safe.

And looking into the violet of Yang’s eyes, Blake’s fingers gently cradled in hands she knew to be the most powerful in the world, Blake breathed again.

“Yeah,” she said, soft and decisive, “I do,”

Yang smiled, her lips full and too beautiful. She stood, and for a moment, Blake was worried she might try to kiss her. Worried, because she knew it wasn’t the right time, and she’d happily go along with it anyway. But Yang knew her better than that.

A small press of her hand, and Yang had her arms around Blake’s middle. It was the natural order of polarity for Blake to slip her own around Yang’s neck. Her eyes fluttered shut. Pressed against Yang, every hesitation, every fear, every burning question threatening to spiral out into an explosion of ‘what-if’, suddenly quieted.

Yang pulled away.

Held her hands.

Brought the left one up and ran the knuckles along the dry silk of her lips. It wasn’t even a kiss, just an odd, soft, pressure between the first two bones of her hand. It made her heart jolt.

“Thanks,” Yang said simply, releasing that hand but keeping hold of her right one, “That should make this a lot easier,”

Blake didn’t bother restraining her smile. It was bright, and near manic with disbelief. Yang’s grin reflexively copied her.

“Easier?” Blake asked, finding the spaces between Yang’s fingers and lacing to the second digit gently. Yang’s amethyst eyes burned with pride. She stood to her full height, left hand curling to pull Blake’s slim fingers further into her palm. She smirked.

“Way easier,” she said gamely, “Now I don’t have to worry about who you’re thinking about when you take extra long showers,” she heckled a brow, “It’s me,”

Blake scoffed, groaning and adoring the glimmer of Yang’s being. She didn’t resist the indulgent instinct; she stepped, and bumped her forehead to Yang’s collarbone. Stroked her thumb into the space of Yang’s palm. The slight twitch told her it tickled.

“You’re the only one who does that, Yang. I can go two months without getting off. Or at least hiding it better. Like everyone else here,”

Yang’s chest thrummed with her laugh, and Blake had never heard such a sweet, cavernous sound. Like Yang’s heart was bigger than the rest of the world’s. She snuck a kiss to Blake’s silk black hair.

“I’ve wanted to do that for months,” Yang said, gentle and electric. She raised a brow, resuming, “And I highly doubt that,” she grinned, her heart beating a victory march against her rib cage, “Let’s take a poll,”

Blake pulled away, stepping back without dropping their hands. Yang couldn’t stop smiling. The brunette hummed, amber eyes calm and sure once again. Bright, thrilled emotion naked in their depths, but sure. She cocked an eyebrow.

“I’d watch you take a poll any time,”

Yang threw her head back and laughed.

* * *

 

The Drivesuits were cool. Yang wasn’t going to lie.

The base layer was reminiscent of a wet suit, black and skin-tight polymer laced with electro-impulse readers to ensure the circuitry sensors picked up every shift of neural activity in a pilot’s muscles. Over it went a precision-engineered polycarbonate shell of battle armor. It provided life support necessary for the wear a Jaeger absorbed in battle, a magnetic interface at the chest and all major limb joints.

All in all, not only was piloting a Jaeger cool as shit, you looked cool as shit while doing it.

The Drivesuit Room was the first stop for a pilot. Yang was fitted by team of technicians, eyeing the dude currently pulling Blake’s circuitry suit over her spandex-clad ass. They were given their helmets and entered the PONS lab. In a real situation, they’d go to their Conn-Pod, link up, and be dropped into their Jaeger.

But first, they had to link.

Blake entered the PONS lab before Yang, the simulator set up to look exactly like a Conn-Pod. It was a circular room, no larger than a small house’s kitchen area. One entire wall was clear, a window for the pilots to see out of; the ceiling decorated with overhead displays for communications with LOCCENT mission control, as well as to get zoomed views, Jaeger status readings, and other information. Most notable though, were the two sets of upright looking chairs.

Blake took the closest position. The left hemisphere. She rolled her eyes when Yang smirked, striding past her. There was a Jaeger superstition that the right hemisphere pilot was the dominant pilot.

Yang took her place. She stepped into the foot braces, avoiding the giant gap in the floor. The braces clamped down on the Drivesuit seamlessly, the rest of the rig reaching down to hard-link to her arms and shoulders. The kicker was the ‘chair’s’ back. It sealed to her back and lay directly over her spine. Yang shivered through the sparking, tingling feeling. She looked to Blake, who instinctively returned the sure glance.

LOCCENT crackled into the PONS, Ozpin’s voice steady.

“Initiating neural handshake in 15 seconds,” he said, beginning his countdown, “Fifteen, fourteen, thirteen,”

“Ready?” Blake asked. Yang’s smile was wolfish.

“Absolutely,”

“Six, five, four, three, two, one. Neural handshake initiated,”

Yang gasped, her spine superheating and sending sparks to her fingers and toes. Her vision didn’t go out, but suddenly all she saw was white. She tried to move, and then the world went to hell.

A flood of sensation streamed into her consciousness; scent, sound, touch, taste –sight. Images played in sickening loops of ever-shifting color, movement, quick and distorted. It was a typhoon of experience, Yang helplessly thrown through the manic gale. A lifetime of sensory experience exploded in a single detonation inside her brain.

She felt like she was going to throw up.

Wild, her mind cast out a helpless call.

_Blake!_

As soon as she tried to focus on any one thing, everything settled. Yang had somehow found a fixed point, and she could breathe again. She remembered her corporeal body and flexed her fingers. Something angry in her spine twinged, but the pain was grounding.

Not dead. The entire thing lasted possibly a half of a second.

The point she chose was a clip of some kind. It played out of focus, changed, played something different. The color scheme seemed inverted. Yang squinted mentally. And suddenly, she was someone else.

She looked out and saw- herself. Blake walked through a café, her glance passing over Yang’s soot-blackened face on a muted television. A flicker, and Blake was watching Yang walk through the Academy doors, Yang’s expression tipping irritated at the crawl of people subtly crowding her. Another flicker.

And then Blake was shaking the hand of a heavily mustached man that Yang somehow instinctively knew to be the President of Israel. A table in front of them had the hand-held weapons system she had designed. She was 19. Flicker. Blake was 14 and running through the streets of Tel Aviv, a redheaded boy holding her hand and laughing. She was 5, tears streaming down her face as a tall, slim-figured man boarded a plane for Quebec and her heart cracked in half. Her mother’s hands were claws on her shoulder. She twisted, shaking loose, and ran away into the crowd. She was 21, one hand on the bathroom door in the dead of night, the other working between her legs. Yang wasn’t a light sleeper, but she’d respond to the sound of her own name cried through grit teeth. She was 16, and the redheaded boy, Adam, slapped her in the face, fury in his eyes, Blake’s phone in his hand. She was 18, curled into a ball in her basic training barracks, Adam coughing up blood around the pencil in his throat, hand still clamped down on the ripped fabric of Blake’s skirt. She hadn’t meant to, she had just reacted. Blake scrambled up, and ran. She was 20, Ilia taking her patrol cap off and stammering out a love letter, Blake’s heart heavy and tired, but sleeping with her anyway.

Flicker.

Yang’s breath drove out of her lungs as her spine flowed with magma once again. She gasped, feeling her eyes go wide but seeing only white. In a spin of desperation, she cast her thoughts toward Blake.

And the world rightened itself.

No, it was too… low? Yang blinked, looking up at her father’s cooing face. Her mother’s a raven-haired wash of forgotten memory beside him. Yang blinked, tears suddenly in her eyes as she relived Summer’s funeral. She blinked, Mason Rift flat on his back at recess, a shining white and red mark on his cheek that she knew would quickly bloom to purple and green. Her knuckles were red. Yang looked back and made sure Ruby was all right. Her little sister sniffled, hands scraped from where Mason had shoved her. She was 7, and it was the first time she’d felt rage. It felt like the opposite of helplessness. It felt good.

Yang blinked.

She was 12, hiding under the bleachers with Raine Whethers. He kissed with a pursed mouth and sweaty, greedy, hands. The very next week, Marisol Vallara’s lips had been softer than silk, her chap stick tasting like apricot and the Fourth of July. Yang’s stomach glowed. She was 16, signing her life away under her father’s consenting, gin smeared signature, the Air Force recruiter nodding approvingly. She was 18, the youngest pilot ever to lead a platoon, making direct eye contact with a blushing girl across a smoky bar. Yang turned, the girl naked against her sheets. She changed shape into a different girl. Another one. One after the other, and then Yang looked away, out her window to see the Jaeger Academy’s looming entrance. She was 22, and Circe lounged against the entrance’s pillar, her eyes smelt gold and impassive. She had skin like moonlight, and Yang wanted to know everything about her.

Yang blinked, 20 and angry. Rage fired like a 12-cylinder engine up her spine. She kicked the door in and bum-rushed a burning building. 21, and smiling tepidly at a stranger’s camera. Crumpling the photo when it printed in every newspaper.

Then, her spine was on fire once more.

It would have brought tears to her eyes had she been given her own vision, but for now, Yang merely gasped, back white-hot and searing. Faintly, she heard high, electronic beeping. Emergency alarms, most likely. In the mean time, her vertebrae screamed.

And then she could open her eyes.

Yang gasped, her stomach roiling, sweat running down her face but somehow she felt freezing cold. She was back in the PONS pod, the overhead display flashing with [LOCCENT OVERRIDE]. Yang snapped her head to the left, and her chest thudded. Blake still had her eyes closed, every line of her body tense and twitching.

Yang ripped the helmet off her head, reaching and punching the emergency release in the ceiling with a leaden arm.

“Blake!” she yelled, knowing it was most likely useless. She darted to Blake’s side, ripping wires from the helmet and praying.

“Blake, come on, come on,”

Yang slammed the release, catching Blake easily and lowering her to the floor, “Blake,” she grit her teeth, patting at Blake’s cheek and checking her pulse. It fluttered under her fingertips.

“Come on, please just be unconscious,” Yang said, her heart racing, “Come on, Blake. Come on!”

Blake gasped, her eyes flying open. Yang caught her from rising up too far, cradling the woman carefully. Blake breathed in heaving rushes of air, her hands immediately finding Yang’s shoulder and arm around her.

“Hey, hey, look at me,” Yang whispered out, something instinctive telling her Blake didn’t like loud noises, pissed at the sirens and flashing lights, “Breathe with me,”

Blake’s liquid amber eyes locked, and moments of greedy breathing filled in, getting slow and shallow. Blake’s eyes jumped between Yang’s, her mouth slightly parted.

Yang felt herself trying to pour her soul into the woman in her arms. She urged strength through her veins, hoping it would transfer through their very skin. Eventually, Blake swallowed, inhaling through her nose once more. She sat up, hand to her head. Yang held her other one like a lifeline.

“How do you feel?” she asked, quiet.

Blake swallowed again, brows drawing as she looked over Yang’s face.

“Fine. Good,” she said, confused and cerebral, “I feel… nice,”

Yang smiled softly.

“Good,”

And in truth, she felt the same. Without the panic of Blake’s limp body clouding her thoughts, Yang felt her mind clear. And be replaced with something warm. It sat in the middle of her chest, small and golden and whole.

And undoubtedly a side effect of tearing her own heart open in front of someone, and not feeling a shred of pity. Instead, she felt clean. Like she had torn the paper off the walls, and had Blake reverently touch the deep, rich color underneath. Run her fingernails over the chips, liking them for their texture.

Yang pulled in a deep breath, sagging slightly as she exhaled. She closed her eyes briefly, relaxing into the pull of her chest. The next thing she knew, Blake had leaned up slowly and pressed her forehead to Yang’s temple.

The air was hot between them, but it was a fresh heat. Like steam and wood fire.

“You alright there, champ?” Blake murmured.

Yang laughed gently, nodding, “Yeah. That was just… a lot,”

“I’ll say,” she aired.

Yang chuckled, eyes fluttering shut and reaching to pressed Blake’s knuckles to her mouth. When she pulled away, Blake’s eyes were tender. God, she wanted to kiss her.

But Blake’s gaze finally flickered up, her brow immediately crumbling.

“LOCCENT override?”

Yang twisted, focusing on the flashing words. They finally registered.

“What the fuck?” she growled. She stood, Blake coming with her. Yang tread fury, slamming open the pod’s doors and pacing a warpath around the cubicle-like barrier. She threw her helmet onto Ozpin’s keyboard with half the strength she wanted to. It still smashed a coffee cup.

“What the fuck was that?” she yelled, “You overrode our handshake? What the hell for?”

Oobleck’s eyebrows had climbed high and stayed there, but Ozpin looked mildly calm.

“We detected data we had never seen before. We simply thought it best to terminate the connection,”

“New data’? Are you fucking joking? You could have _killed her_ , you grimy little _shit_!”

“Yang,”

Blake’s hand lighted on her elbow, and she wrenched straight, breathing hard. Ozpin had only leaned backwards, slightly put out. He glanced to the monitor and back to the pilots. Pursed his lips.

“Yes, I see I should apologize for that,” he whirred, adjusting his tiny glasses, “I would honestly have preferred to study this… phenomenon. But with how far you are in the Jaeger training, it would be very difficult to replace you,”

He grimaced.

“Yes, I apologize,”

Yang’s head reared back, incredulous smoke filling her lungs. Blake’s grip on her elbow tightened.

“We’ll be leaving,” she said, frosty disgust coating her tone. Yang’s exhale screamed of missed opportunity, but she turned to follow Blake out and back to the Drivesuit room. Yang was furious. Blake could feel it in the air. Her stride was sharp, all angles and pointed force.

“That won’t happen again,” she said quietly, Blake mesmerized by the snarling jungle cat that stalked beside her, “Not to you. Not to me. I’ll make sure of it,”

Blake halted, catching her hand.

“Hey, stop. Come here,” she pulled Yang to a forcible pause, the girl’s eyes a violent violet and narrow. Blake dipped her head to catch her gaze firmly, “We’ll make plan,” she said, decisive and arctic analysis, “Maria will be pissed about this. I actually bet Ironwood, too. But hey,” she dipped again, Yang having looked away, “I’ve got an idea,”

Yang focused on her, her heart rate loud but declining.

“We know how the Jaegers are hardwired,” Blake’s eyes flashed, “Once we get our Jaeger, we can rewire her any way we want,”

Yang’s jaw flexed. She tried to hold onto the anger, Ozpin’s weaselly face swimming before her eyes. Blake unconscious. Thin, capable fingers interrupted the reel of images; tipped her chin up.

“I’m alright, Yang,” Blake smoked, sweet and placid as a lake.

After that, staying mad was near impossible. She huffed.

“He’s still a grimy little shit,”

Blake’s smile pressed into her cheeks, her hand skimming down Yang’s wrist to twine their fingers.

“Without a doubt,”

“And I’m gonna imagine his face on a punching bag later,”

“I’ll paint it on, if you want,”

Yang grinned. Rolled her eyes.

“Stop being so levelheaded. People will think we’re a good match or something,”

Blake laughed.

“Can you imagine?”

Yang hummed, walking backwards down the hall. She lifted an eyebrow.

“So the bathroom, huh? Do you have any idea how hot that is?”

Blake’s laugh was pointed.

“As opposed to the shower? Subtle, Yang,” she sent her a flat, unhappy look, “Do you know how awful that was? To know?”

Yang shivered, a pleased little grin turning her attractive features devilish and starved.

“Fuck, how am I supposed to sleep now?”

* * *

 

Yang lay sprawled out on the lower bed in their barracks room, her head pillowed on her own arm behind her head. She scratched her stomach. Yawned. After the successful Drift, all the pilots had been moved into a better version of their shared room. It had a small kitchenette, their bathroom, and an added sink. Nothing extravagant. The bunk beds, pre-cracked mirror, and rusted iron color palate didn’t let them get so arrogant to consider luxury.

But she’d sweet talked Winter into getting them a TV.

The corporal had stammered, grit her jaw, and flatly told her ‘no’. When it appeared in their room days later, Blake had rolled her eyes nearly out of her head. She muttered something about ‘that poor girl’.

Currently, Yang was turned, staring at a paused title screen, Blake rummaging around in the kitchen. She smiled at the low, self murmur-talking Blake streamed. It was a beautiful habit, sweet and pure. Blake talked to herself. Mostly in French Canadian, but sometimes in English.

She was reading the instructions on the back of a popcorn bag when Yang craned her neck to look.

“Hm,” Blake quietly read aloud, “’Place in microwave… side up... do _not_ use the popcorn button’. Hm,” her mumblings ratcheted higher, intrigued, “No popcorn button. _Preneur de risque_.

Yang smiled to herself. She didn’t speak a lick of French, or of the Canadian bastardization. But she was pretty sure Blake had just called a bag of popcorn a risk taker.

She closed her eyes, completely content.

“Maria made fun of us when I went to see her,” she said aloud.

“Really?” Blake called, “What for today?”

Yang smiled to herself, “Our Drift data. She said she didn’t blame Ozpin for freaking out. I mean, still called him an asshole, which was satisfying,”

Blake chuckled, the microwave running.

“We were basically Drifting on a fucking warren of RABITs, she said,” Yang continued, “She says that Random Access Brain Impulse Triggers are not supposed to be chased on a first Drift, and that we ‘shot that idea in the face’. Her words, not mine. My favorite part was when she said we were supposed to be pilots not ‘god damn RABIT huntresses’,”

“Then she made a pretty good joke about me saving her from the fire I’d put under her ass,” Yang nodded to herself, “Which I respect,”

Blake chuckled over the popcorn’s violent awakening.

“She loves you. I’m surprised she hasn’t asked for an autograph yet,”

Yang groaned.

“That’s not funny,” she grumped, “the Jaeger techs are starting to get bold,”

“No sympathy. You sign one uniform, you sign them all,”

Yang rolled her eyes, distinctly recalling the awkward situation she’d been cornered into at dinner last week.

“I really should have let the fucking place burn,” she grumbled.

Blake was laughing by the time she brought the steaming bowl of popcorn over.

“Now _that’s_ not funny. The public venerated you because you represented an idea,” She pushed the stacked books on the floor where she wanted them, setting the bowl on top, “I’ve always been impressed by the trend your fame started up. Where the world realized the entirety of southern California was a moral wasteland, and there were people much more worthy of admiration out there,”

Yang wrinkled her nose. The broad side of the bed faced the room, pushed against the wall just for movie nights like this. Blake sat on the edge of the bed, facing Yang.

“I’m famous because I got pissed, and the Air Force capitalized on me,” Yang arched.

Blake laughed. She tipped her head.

“The public determines who is famous and who isn’t. You saved ten people from burning to death. In any culture, that’s heroic. People wanted a celebrity like that,” she locked twinkling eyes on the blonde, “Though, it helps that you’re stunning,”

Blake patted Yang’s thigh, ignoring the smear of flattery touching her lips.

“Come on,”

“Hold on- yeah, got it,”

Yang wiggled back into her adjusted pillows, stomach fluttering as Blake crouched over her, languid as a panther. She lowered herself like she was stepping into the luxury of a hot tub. Blake’s head was supported on Yang’s chest and shoulder join, to allow her to see the TV. She shifted to the side and slipped her arm under the arch of Yang’s back, comfortable without putting the limb to sleep. Yang rewound their legs and reached to put the popcorn on her stomach. Her left arm settled over Blake’s hip, fingers dipping inches below Blake’s yoga pants to colonize the heartbreaking hollow of her ilium.

It was practiced. Simple routine.

Mundane.

It had cratered into Yang’s chest like a meteoroid, never to fill until Blake’s lovely warmth took her place back up again. Her exact weight and size made Yang remember the soul-searing satisfaction of things nature designed to perfectly fit together; tides and eclipses. But the hand on Blake’s hip was easily her favorite part of this position. It let her feel the pull of Blake’s laughter, the twitches of her gasps. It was three inches, and felt like a lifeline.

She hit play.

Blake nuzzled further into Yang’s chest.

Her palm was warm and heavy. It grounded her, cementing her against Yang’s body. Blake marveled at the blonde’s unconscious sensuality. Yang instinctively knew when to move, when to stop. The delicate balance between when, what, and where of appropriate physicality had always felt like such a tenuously thin triad to Blake. But with Yang, it was suddenly something absent. Not changed; not new; but gone. Missing completely.

She breathed, Yang’s rich citrus and leather smell nearly overwhelmed by the clean cider and spice of her hair. Blake settled her free hand on Yang’s stomach, toyed with her shirt’s hem. It would be so easy to lift it, touch Yang’s jaw. Draw her face closer. Finally kiss the perpetually smooth lips.

It churned desire deep in her stomach and sinking lower. She nearly went breathless with the ache of it.

But Yang shifted under her, sighing and pressing her lips to Blake’s hair as if she could sense her discomfiture. Blake relaxed, ignorant of anything on their television’s screen.

Not yet.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Then**  

 

After their second time in the PONS simulator pod, they were called into a brief with Colonel Ironwood and Dr. Oobleck in an empty training room. Yang was just glad Ozpin was missing.

Colonel Ironwood looked significantly at Oobleck, who came forward with a careful smile, a data projector in his hand.

“Technically, we’re still in the preliminary trials of studying the neural connection,” he started carefully, Yang immediately exchanging a glance with Blake. He throws the data into light, a bell curve and other scrolling numbers rolling over the frame and out of Yang’s interest.

“We’d just like to monitor you more closely. Your connection could provide valuable data,”

Yang stood taller, frowning. She shifted, stopped only by a delicate touch to her forearm.

“What’s wrong with our connection, Dr. Oobleck?”

Blake’s tone was cool, a reassuring frost immediately quenching the heat warming Yang’s spine. The man flipped through his projections, sighing.

“The science is… complicated,”

“Try us,”

Yang crossed her arms, glaring hard at the gangly man. He smiled tightly, bringing a chart up, the pilots and their respective copilots mapped out.

“The neural connection is measured as an overlap of what we know as the conscious and unconscious,” he said, obviously paraphrasing, “Brainwaves, translated as projectable data. The frequency of these waves are what matters in the neurobiology we’re concerned with. Every person develops their own frequency of brainwave, as unique as a fingerprint. If we can find those minds that have similar wavelengths, we can link them neurologically to create Drift,”

His voice sped, gesturing with abandon, “As you know, we’ve called the mechanism of Drift the ‘neural handshake’, two minds reaching out to meet, and it’s measured as an overlap percentage. The average overlap we’ve measured in the pilots has been 95.75%. Indeed, in order to compensate for the missing 5%, we’ve created synthetic synapses for the neural connection to use as a sort of neutral ground inside the headspace itself. It’s quite remarkable, actually-“

“Bartholomew, please,”

The doctor sent an apologetic look to Ironwood, clearing his throat.

“Pardon me,” he corrected, pointing, two photo IDs blowing up, “The strongest connection to date has been from Miltia and Melanie Malachite, identical twins from South Korea. Their mean connection overlap is 99.99%,”

He tapped their own photos, Yang flashing an illegal smile, Blake straight faced.

“Until today,” his forehead crumpled, “Ms. Xiao Long, Ms. Belladonna, you were recorded to overlap 100%,” he cleared his throat, “100.02%, actually,”

Yang frowned.

“What does that mean?”

Oobleck gave a small shuffle, closing the data and looking to Ironwood.

“We don’t know,” the taller man said, “But we’d like you to continue with the Drift,”

Yang looked at Blake, the woman’s features playing carefully interested. But she was relaxed. Yang nodded tightly.

“Will do. Thanks for the update, Sir,”

“Do you need us to do anything outside regular training, Doctor?”

Oobleck nearly jumped, threw his hands up and waved quickly, “No! No, please do not deviate from the outlined training schedule,”

Blake nodded, “Of course,”

“But do uh,” Oobleck formulated the words, “Do let us know if you experience any changes or other differences,”

Something about it itched at Yang, but she nodded all the same. She just wanted to leave and talk to Blake.

“Now,” Ironwood stepped in, “If you’ll excuse us,”

They stepped aside, the two men walking past and exiting. Yang put her arms behind her head, raising an eyebrow when Blake turned to meet her eyes.

“I’ve never seen Oobleck so excited,” Yang said.

Blake hummed.

“I understand the implications behind being the first of anything,” she clicked softly, glancing significantly at Yang, “In the scientific community, it usually never fares well for the subject,”

The blonde tipped her head.

“Yeah, well. These lab rats can fight back,” she smiled at Blake, “Besides, Oobleck’s a nerd in a lab. Only we actually know what the neural connection is like,” she swung a long, muscled arm over Blake’s shoulders, pulling the beauty to her side.

Blake breathed through her nose, content to let Yang lead them through to the barracks wing. She held her own elbow behind her back.

“You do realize that I’ve built most of my career being one of those nerds, right?”

“Aw, you shouldn’t talk about yourself like that,” Yang pressed a kiss to Blake’s hair, “You can still be a badass in my eyes,”

Yang’s chest hummed at the flutter of laughter Blake gifted, the gloss of her hair still cool and slick against her lips. She felt her stomach warm when Blake veered slightly off-course, pressing briefly into her side.

“In your eyes, and on your back, Air Force Kickboxing Champion,” she cooed.

“I thought we were never going to talk about that,”

“That was never an agreement,”

“Because it went without saying,”

Blake hummed, considering, “Fine. We don’t have to talk about it again, only because I’ll be happy to remind you whenever you like,” she bumped her hip lightly, “Champ,”

Yang grinned, Blake warm against her side.

“Are we gonna talk about it, though?”

Blake’s humor hadn’t faded.

“About what?”

“You. Me. The Drift. The things we see in there. Feel. Know,”

They walked a few paces in silence. Blake took her time replying, knowing with every inch of her being that if she said no, Yang would accept it.

“If you want,”

Yang felt something close to guilt claw at her heart. She straightened, Blake accommodating her movements without thought.

“I want you to want that too,” she let a small frown tug at her lips, free hand rubbing at her chest, absent thought. Yang looked for the words in the iron-wrought ceiling, “There’s no such thing as normal there. But I want your normal to be whatever you’re comfortable with,”

Blake nodded, noticing for the first time that their ambling steps were in synch.

“I know what you mean,” she tightened her hold on her arm, thinking, “I feel that way too. But ‘normal’ seems out of reach, and honestly? Just boring,” she gave a small smile, “So how about we do this _à notre manière_? Our way,”

Yang smiled, warm and lovely.

“Our way sounds good,”

She nearly went giddy when Blake’s arm finally slipped around her waist, tucking into her side.

“Let’s talk,” Blake said.

And so they did.

Yang stole food from the mess, Blake pilfering from the kitchen and supply closet. They were allowed anything they wanted from the pantry, but their caloric intake was supposed to be logged. Which wasn’t Yang’s style.

They cooked in their barracks apartment and talked. Laughed, threw food at each other, and talked. Yang pressed in behind Blake, watched nimble hands work, inhaled oregano and Blake’s shampoo. And talked.

Yang cracked her own chest open, separated skin and bone gladly, and pointed to the tattoos braiding her arm.

“Birds,” Blake skimmed her fingertips over the black and white art plaiting the corded arm, Yang’s hair rising at the gentle caress.

“Raven was my mother’s name,” she murmured, the hurt long gone but the resentment still tender and pink, “She left after I was born. My uncle Qrow dropped in every now and then,” her jaw tightened, “Ruby’s mom, Summer, died when I was a kid. Dad never really got over it,”

Blake traced the roses twining up her forearm, fascinated with the play of skin over muscle and strength. Looked up to the lavender eyes, unafraid and spliced into truth and trust. She brought a hand to Yang’s neck, thumb skimming over taut velvet skin. Yang really was raw strength.

“You’re not alone any more,” she said, square sincerity hewn into every syllable, “As long as you want someone with you, you’ll have me,”

What else could Yang do but grip Blake’s shirt and try not to sob? Gentle fingers carded through her hair. Told her it was time to eat.

They washed dishes and smiled secret, stupid smiles they both pretended not to see. Yang washed, Blake dried. There was music, and there was Blake’s low voice, pouring wine and the story of Adam’s crawling manipulation of a fifteen-year-old girl. She sipped, slipped into a carefully swaying kitchen dance, Yang a step ahead and solace.

“Blake,” Yang pressed the brunette’s lower back with steel warmth, belly warm against the flat plane of Blake’s own, their breasts brushing. Her eyes were deep purple and searching, “Do you blame yourself?”

“Not anymore,” Blake responded quietly, her smile free.

Yang hummed, “Well. You don’t have to think about that ginger prick again,” she said casually, “Besides, blondes have more fun,”

They separated again, lounging on Yang’s bed, talking and smiling intermittently. Yang had nearly choked when Blake spun to slot herself between Yang’s legs, back pressing to her front. Blake had only traced her knee, asking about Ruby’s last call. If she’d done well on her finals.

Yang talked with her hands, Blake teasing in her wonder about whether Yang would be mute if she tied her wrists together. Yang felt her entire world tilt on axis, reorienting to revolve around this girl in her bed with the alabaster skin and razor sharp wit. It was late. Very late. They had PT in the morning, and more engineering classes. They separated, went about their end of day activities and climbed in their own beds. Yang’s heart soared. It took a very, very long time for Yang to fall asleep, Blake’s near-silent breathing a hypnotic rhythm above her.

Somewhere right of her heart, more center to her chest, she could feel… something. Like a blockage in the stream of her soul. Yang breathed, her consciousness probing through her body, imagining blood and nerves. She brushed against that mass, holding it gentle and secure. And focused.

Something tapped back.

It was faint, barely a whisper, the smoke of a lighter nearly struck.

But it was peace; milk-sweet and sleepy; warm.

It was Blake.

She didn’t know how, but she knew it was. Yang smiled into the darkness, rolling over and pressing her hand to her chest. If she pressed hard enough, maybe she could protect her.

* * *

 

They spent 10-hour days in the simulator room on Mondays and Fridays.

It was drills, reaction running, problem solving and memory recall. It was mobility tests, simulation search and destroys, malfunction replication, anything LOCCENT could think of.

It left Yang feeling raw; exhausted. Her soul felt wrung out and put away wet. Like her heart had beat itself tired. It made her skin feel strange over her own muscles, like it didn’t fit. The PONS were jarring to take on and off, Drift connection interrupted by LOCCENT at their own leisure. Yang hated it. Coming out of the Drift was like slipping carefully into a hot tub, acclimating until the heat was soaked into your very bones, and then being dunked under a polar ice cap.

Blake never wanted to talk afterwards, and Yang didn’t blame her. They did the best they could for each other in the Drift: Blake’s rhythm and Yang’s beat, a sweet, low harmony interrupted by a screeching loudspeaker. Command didn’t understand, kept getting pissy they wouldn’t verbally communicate instead of relying on the Drift.

Yang liked to stand under a steaming hot shower’s spray for another whole hour, trying to settle the lopsided feeling in her chest; soothe the crawl under her skin. Blake tried to read. It was her most loved escape. A scalding hot tea sat at her side, an attempt at drowning the wrongness thrumming in her spirit. Yang knew it never worked.

She lay in her bunk, dissatisfied and oddly cold. Hopefully Blake was warm. She shut her eyes, trying to relax. Her bones felt misplaced.

“Yang?”

She opened her eyes, “Yeah?”

Instead of answering, Yang watched Blake’s svelte form drop from the top bunk, barely making a sound. Yang propped on her elbow when Blake didn’t move, something in her chest rolling, clicking, and easing. It was too dark to see her face, but Yang’s heart pulled her into movement, knowing. She lifted her blankets, a smile in her grit-rough voice.

“C’mere,”

Blake slipped under her covers, nestling into Yang’s neck without hesitation or shame. Yang shut her eyes, free hand fluttering on Blake’s jaw before giving way to long, slow passes up and down Blake’s back. She smelled like jasmine and clove. Yang’s body suddenly felt saturated in honey and milk. Weightless.

Blake’s legs had naturally tangled with her own and her feet were ice cold. Yang chortled, Blake burrowing her nose into the hollow of Yang’s neck and huffing. She trapped one of Yang’s calves between her bare feet, the blonde hissing and jerking.

“Fucking Christ, popsicle toes,” she grumbled, pulling Blake closer. Yang sighed, her chest suddenly a furnace, billowing hotter on every inhale. She rearranged her legs to layer Blake’s feet between her own. Blake felt so good pressed against her. Twined tight and inseparable. The weight of her; the solid softness. Blake was lean everywhere, a side effect of their rigorous lifestyles, but she had silky, yielding skin. A figure to die for. Her breasts pressed into Yang’s, both of them clothed, but their firmness was supple and gut wrenching.

“Blake?”

“Hmm?”

Yang smiled at the contentment thrumming through the half-syllable, lips pressed to the silken, jasmine-clouded, locks.

“Do you remember six months ago, when I told you I’d tell you the things I thought and felt?”

Blake breathed a laugh, warm and ticklish on Yang’s neck.

“Yes?”

“Right now, I’m thinking about how I don’t ever want to be without you,” Yang said, a stream of consciousness rolling from her mouth to drop like pennies in a fountain. She didn’t expect a single thing in return; throwing coins because she liked the shimmer it put in the water.

“I honestly can’t imagine going back to what I was before you. You’re the best thing in my life,” she stroked the strip of skin between Blake’s shirt and pants, felt the brushing flutter of Blake’s opened eyelashes against her neck, “You’re my best friend. I want to be yours. Be with you. I don’t ever want to scare you,” she said, her mind turning Ilia’s face around like the picture frame of a dead, hated uncle, “Love shouldn’t come with strings attached. It won’t ever again,”

Blake’s breathe arrested in her lungs. She pulled out of Yang’s safe chest, her eyes wide in the dark.

“Yang. Do you love me?

Yang sighed. Touched her forehead to Blake’s. It was more tender than any embrace, more intimate than any kiss. Yang’s nose brushed Blake’s, pressed from brow to nearly the bow of their lips.

“So much,” she whispered, “I love you so much, Blake. More than I know how to say,”

“And what if,” Blake’s lip trembled, “What if I want the strings this time around? What if I want to be yours too?”

Yang shifted impossibly closer, eyelashes tickling Blake’s face. There was pure velvet above her lips, Yang’s satin mouth skimming electric shocks as she spoke.

“We don’t need strings, babe. We’ll just never let go,”

They kissed.

It was a smooth, inevitable join of their lips. Just a sweet press of their mouths. Blake’s heart thundered, her hand slipping to cradle Yang’s jaw. Corrected her angle. Their lips slotted together, Blake rising to a forearm and pressing her entire front to Yang’s. She shuddered.

They kissed.

Broke. Breathed hard.

Realized that kissing held better air.

Blake dipped, her bottom lip fitting between Yang’s light, sucking, lips. She pushed deeper, Blake’s tongue flicking out to tease under Yang’s top lip. The blonde’s chest spasmed underneath her. The wet blade of her tongue traced that soft, sweet top lip again, breaking the barrier of Yang’s mouth, her lips separating to welcome her in.

Blake retracted her tongue, shifting her head to position their mouths just so- oh. That was nice. Yang whined, caught Blake around the middle and _pulled_ , Blake’s hand in her hair, the other on the bed. They breathed into each other, Blake’s mouth sheer heat as she sucked on Yang’s tongue.

They danced, their lips an interplay without music, but was absolute song. A rhythm of closed mouth pecks; deep, lunging kisses laced with passion; heady, groaning, toils of slow, grinding caresses of lips. It was only when Blake rocked, Yang’s groan a hedonistic aphrodisiac in her ears did she let her mind’s whirlwind settle on a loud, pressing, thought.

Parting from Yang’s mouth felt like cutting off several fingers, but she’d rather remove an entire limb than hurt Yang unintentionally. Blake panted, hot and slick between her legs. Several desperately wet, parting kisses separated her from speaking, Yang chasing her lips millimeter by millimeter. Blake shuddered against the powerful ease of Yang’s flexing abdominals under her stomach.

Blake finally had to plant a hand on Yang’s chest to return her flat on the bed.

“I love you,” she breathed, reckless and nearly out of her mind with need, “I’ve loved you ever since you broke your bo in the Kwoon battles. I love your humor, and your passion, your loyalty, your intellect and stubbornness. I love how you listen, how you want to learn, how you admit when you’re wrong,” Yang’s hands were vices around her hips, and Blake hoped to God she left bruises. Anything to prove this night were real, “I love you, and I can’t imagine my life without you,”

“But Yang, please,” her voice pitched hopeless, frantic and hungry, “This taking it slow thing has been great. But, can we please have sex?”

Yang was breathless, her heart removed entirely and in possession of the woman straddling her stomach. But she processed quickly, and her reflexes were even quicker. She lunged upwards for a deep, hot kiss, Blake’s staying hand sliding up her neck and into the golden hair.

Blake gasped against her mouth, Yang’s hands under her shirt in a smooth slide.

Neither girl caught her breath until well into the sunrise.

* * *

 

There was a single English-speaking district in the downtown of Vladivostok the PPDC had helped establish, the town enthusiastically providing the supply for the foreigners’ demand. Three of the buildings conveniently overlapped with the red light district, which Blake found hilarious. But the rest of it was bars and small shops.

Yang had badgered Winter everyday for nearly a week.

But she’d won.

The cadets were allowed a half-day of leave, 1500 to 2100. Blake had taken the news with measured alacrity, Yang full-on cheering. She high fived Lena and Sun in class, winking at Jaune, who flushed brilliantly. After this, she’d turned on Blake with a whip-sharp spin. Grabbed her hand to lead her out of the room, Blake taking over and pulling her into the first dark corner they could find.

Without even stopping fully, Yang had already crowded Blake against a wall, mouth hot and demanding over her own. Blake shivered at the scrape of Yang’s teeth, a purposeful grind designed to clench her stomach. It was a mess; lips and tongues passable substitutes for two souls’ joyful communication.

They’d had sex nearly everyday, twice a day, for a week. It was a dam burst; an inferno fed dynamite; carbonated passion uncorked. They touched with the appetite of two people entirely satisfied, yet unable to get enough of each other.

Blake laced a hand into Yang’s hair and fisted, the blonde choking over her trapped moan. Blake slotted her mouth over Yang’s, changing the angle; a filthy, pornographic kiss wrecking Yang’s ability to hold herself up, weight falling heavy on the wall. Blake pulled again, softer, Yang’s roots gently signaling.

Her two-toned whine was unabashed, but she got it.

A few wet, healing kisses passed between them, Blake smiling against Yang’s lips.

When Blake opened her eyes, Yang was already staring at her. She’d never seen the same shade anywhere in nature, convinced a bored God had made it just for Yang. Her eyes were livewires. That velveteen threat shaded in the gentle confidence Blake loved.

“Would you still kiss me like that if I said I wanted to date you?”

Blake smiled, free and sincere. She lifted a hand to Yang’s cheek. Stroked the skin.

“Depends,” she crooned, Yang reflexively reaching for a peck of Blake’s lips. Like her sentence wouldn’t be grammatically correct without one, “Do you believe in sex on the first date?”

Another kiss. Addicts, the both of them.

Yang grinned, wrapped so firmly around Blake they pressed thigh to teeth when she smiled. A kiss, eyes open.

“No,” she said, Blake’s eyebrow flicking, “But I do believe in one night stands,” she crouched, Blake laughing and instinctively shifting up and forward to allow Yang underneath her. She hooks her legs over Yang’s hips, elbows on her shoulders as Yang picked her up. At this height, Yang had to tip her head to kiss her, and it thrilled Blake through.

“Good sex and one night stands are mutually exclusive,” she hummed, enjoying the weightlessness, “Everyone knows this. Scientific,”

Yang laughed, a woman of extensive experience with one night stands and sub-par sex. Which Blake knew.

“Got it,” she said, “Relationship, then first date, then first date sex,” another amused kiss, “Makes sense,”

“Or,” Blake hummed, “We could do it our way,”

“Which is?”

“Sex, relationship, sex, date,”

Yang’s chest barreled a mocking sort of moan. Her questions came rapid-fire and desperate, Blake pressing against her and _grinding_.

“Fucking- Fuck, what time can we go?”

“1500,”

“What time is it now?”

“1330,”

“We can do that, right?”

“Mhm,”

“Fuck, babe, you gotta stop that, I can’t think,”

“Give me twenty minutes and you’ll never ask me to stop again,”

Yang laughed, Blake’s smile pressing into her neck. Yang flexed, taking all of Blake’s weight and standing upright. Blake writhed by inches.

“Yang,” she admonished, the blonde grinning and stepping out into the hall.

“No,” Yang headed her complaint off, enjoying immensely the flush blooming over Blake’s cheeks as she walked them back to their room.

“Oi!” Lena’s crisp British accent called from under a walkway, “Shameless couple! Wanna join us for dinner?”

“Sorry, we’re gonna go have crappy first date sex!” Yang yelled back, Blake burrowing her laugh into Yang’s neck, threading through the fine baby hairs fondly.

Amelie called something entirely in French, and Blake straightened, shouting a return. The woman guffawed.

Yang asked her about it as they changed. Blake chuckled, threading an earring.

“She said ‘an orgasm is an orgasm, first or one hundred and first’,”

Yang chortled, pulling on a knee-high boot, “What’d you say?”

Blake grinned at her reflection, turned, and dropped a kiss to Yang’s lips on her way to find a jacket.

“That the only crappy part for us is that we’d have to decide between us who got the hundred and first orgasm,”

* * *

 

It was their last month in Vladivostok, and Yang hissed, dropping to the mat and swearing profusely. She held her head and vaguely heard Pyrrha’s squeaked apology. _Shit_ , that hurt.

She had distracted herself from a class-mix sparring session. On the mat next to her, Blake had swept Sun’s leg and viciously gamboled over his prone form to take him into a headlock. It was art. Yang had to watch. She didn’t go around ignoring sunsets, either.

Without focus, Pyrrah had cracked her in the head with a baton unencumbered. A sickening light flashed through her eyes, and Yang dropped into deadweight. Unfortunately, she was still conscious.

“Fuck, good shot. Sorry, sorry totally my fault. I’m good. One second,”

Yang cursed fluidly as she rolled on the ground for a moment, the training hall stilling at the sight. Grumbling, she got to her feet, shaking her head. She sighed, and looked up to see the faces of her classmates turned towards her, a variety of surprise to confusion etched into their faces.

She frowned, turned to Blake to ask about it, only to look and find Blake slightly flushed, her eyes wide and staring somewhere around her collarbone.

“Uhh…”

Yang felt herself be thumped on the back.

“Dude!” Jaune crowed, “I didn’t know you spoke French!”

Yang’s eyebrows climbed.

“I don’t,”

Suddenly, Blake was in front of her, her hands going to cradle under Yang’s jaw, turning her head this way and that. She squinted, locking gazes and studying.

“What’s the _date_?”

Yang rolled her eyes. She didn’t have a concussion, but she’d let Blake run her test.

“ _Three of April_ ,”

Blake’s eyes widened fractionally, her eyebrows contracting. She blinked, the expression settling smoothly.

“Can you tell me _what you had for breakfast today_?”

Yang sighed, “ _Two eggs and a yoghurt with a fuckload of granola,_ ”

Blake’s lips tipped.

“ _More granola than yoghurt, right_?”

Yang hummed, Blake’s hands warm and soothing under her jaw. Blake was so, so beautiful. She had the prettiest smile. The most sweet-looking lips. Yang wanted to kiss her. Kind of wanted to go down on her.

Blake’s cheeks flushed, dropping her hands. She turned to the hall, activity having mostly resumed. Jaune looked to Pyrrah, cheeks awkward and flush, Sun watching.

“I’m gonna take her to the medic,” Blake said, “Could you spar with Pyrrah, Sun?”

The man nodded, stretching and moving into position. Pyrrah looked hesitant, her eyes careful. Blake gave a reassuring wave.

“We’ll have to ask Ozpin,” Jaune said, the women nodding. Yang furrowed her brow, lost.

She let Blake lead her to their room, and was surprised when she suddenly felt tired. Blake handed her a water bottle, telling her firmly to sit on the bed while she searched their kitchenette, simultaneously tapping on her scroll. She stepped back, crossing to sit next to Yang on the bottom bunk.

“You have a concussion,” Blake said, “Here are some pain killers,”

Yang frowned, “How dare you accuse me of brain trauma. I even answered your questionnaire,”

Blake cocked an eyebrow, “Today is March 3rd, and you had an egg sandwich for breakfast. I had yoghurt. Take the pills, Yang,”

The blonde scrunched her nose.

“Well, shit,” she took the pills, Blake watching her, something akin to fear in her eyes. Yang swallowed some water, “What?”

“You were speaking French. More accurately, you were swearing in French,” Blake studied her critically, “and then you told me you wanted to eat me out in Hebrew,”

Yang paused.

“Okay. I have a concussion,”

* * *

 

Ozpin called it ‘Ghost Drifting’.

“ _A little dramatic_ ,” Blake murmured, idly turning a page of her book. Yang smiled at her from the corner of her mouth, content to look at the woman. This morning, Blake had woken up on the absolute opposite side of the bed.

“You look like a drowned cat,” Yang had chortled, Blake paler than usual and sleepy-eyed. She squinted at Yang, a glare hoping to wake up and crucify. Yang only smiled more fully, scooting backwards in her chair. Blake huffed, but poured herself into Yang’s lap.

The blonde hummed, immensely satisfied with the reaction. Blake had immediately hidden her face in the crook of Yang’s neck, her arms looping around Yang’s strong shoulders. Blake smelled sleep-sweet and heavy. Freshly showered from bathing last night.

“What’s wrong?” Yang asked gently, one hand soothing at Blake’s back, the other on her hip. Blake gave a dissatisfied huff, nosing into Yang’s tied hair.

“Headache,”

Yang massaged the muscles under her hands, Blake’s body relaxing against her chest.

“I didn’t feel you wake up last night,”

Blake grunted, dismissive.

“I didn’t. My head just hurts. The creeping kind of headache. I feel like I need water or something,”

Yang nodded, reaching for her coffee on the table behind Blake. She stopped when Blake’s head lifted, trying not to spill. To her surprise, Blake leaned toward the mug, face relaxing, eyes sliding shut.

“That smells amazing,”

“Uhm. What?”

“Smells good,” Blake whirred, taking the cup and bringing it to her nose. She inhaled deeply, a small, relaxed smile curling her lips. Yang watched with wide eyes. Wider still when Blake put the mug to her lips and gave a tentative tilt of the cup, the black contents slipping past her lips.

The moan Blake let out made Yang want to take her to bed. It was that genuine.

“What the fuck?”

Blake opened her eyes, seeming to catalogue her behavior. She merely hummed, interested. She slipped her non-coffee bearing arm back around Yang’s shoulders, leaning fully into the blonde once more. Yang’s eyebrow was lifted, Blake’s mood flipping 180 degrees before her eyes. Blake breathed deeply, drinking the coffee again.

“I think we’ll need to let Ozpin know you transferred a caffeine dependency to me,”

Yang huffed, still taking the situation in.

“Well, don’t say I never gave you anything,”

Blake’s head had tipped, “I made you a trilinguist, and you’re trading me a chemical addiction? How is that fair, again?”

“ _Addiction to caffeine, and orgasms like you’ve never experienced before_ ,”

Blake laughed at Yang’s French topped by an accompanying wink, sharp fondness in every syllable, “It still means you’ll be making me coffee. Every morning. Until the end of time. This is your fault,”

Yang had agreed, her heart oddly light in her chest.

“Every morning. Yeah, I can do that,”

Blake sent her a flushed, pleased look. Their kiss tasted like happiness and French roast.

Ozpin had nearly shit himself in excitement, Oobleck actually coming to a stand still beside him. And then a full physical exam for the both of them.

Blake had rattled off her own height and weight, plus Yang’s without flinching. Yang had been all too happy to shed her shirt for the body mass calipers’ probe, while answering the ‘fun’ portion of the medical questionnaire.

“Blake’s last period was two weeks ago, same as mine,” she said, “And last sexual encounter was approximately 0545 this morning,”

Goodwitch’s pen stilled, “And Ms. Belladonna’s?”

Yang grinned, sharp and sure, “Approximately 0550,”

The woman frowned, scribbling quickly.

Yang winked at her partner, Blake getting her teeth looked at but leaving her eyes free to roll.

In the end, they found that Blake’s vision had been corrected to 20/20. Yang’s perfect eyesight. Yang’s hearing was more sensitive, years of flight line damage suddenly repaired.

“It’s amazing,” Oobleck had raced around them, shirt half untucked, two different styluses in his hair, “Instead of the organs repairing themselves, your brains have simply re-routed their electrical signals to interpret sight and sound differently. Amazing!”

To Yang, it only meant that getting Blake to cum was insanely easy. Not that it had been difficult before, but this was something else entirely. They knew each and every thing about the other’s bodies. Instinctively, Yang knew just what to do and when. She knew what Blake would feel, and how deeply. Badly. Exquisitely.

At times, sweating against each other, wetness smeared over her stomach, her thighs, her mouth, her hand; groaning, grunting, _fucking_ , like this night, this day, this kiss, would be their last. Sometimes Yang could have sworn they were one in the same. It was filthy, heady, and completely addictive.

Blake ran through her very veins. She was the blood in her heart; the flush under her skin.

Ghost drifting came with other benefits, too.

Yang had taken to throwing things at her when Blake wasn’t looking, the brunette lifting a hand to intercept it every time. Blake realized that while still within eye line of Yang, she could read and walk at the same time, her body instinctively telling her where to step.

The biggest perk of all, though. Was Ember Shroud.

They were brought before the machine with all the ceremony of a five year old receiving a puppy from his parents. Ozpin stood with Ironwood, Goodwitch, Port, Oobleck, and Maria. They weren’t even tall enough to see over the Jaeger’s foot.

“We have long known you both would pilot this Jaeger,” Ozpin said. He lofted a hand to Maria and a gaggle of head technicians behind her, “With the help of our engineers and the study of your neural handshake and fighting style, we’ve adapted Ember Shroud to optimize your abilities,”

Maria stepped forward and spooled out a blue print from her scroll’s projector.

“260 feet, 1,980 tons of dynamite,” she grinned, crushing a fit, “She’s our state of the art. The only Mark-3 we’ve put together so far. 98BD Hyper Torque Drivers, Nuclear Vortex Turbines, 10TK Gyro Stabilizers and 08FS Oceanic Cooling Vents. All running on an Arc-9 reactor,” she cackled, folding her arms in victory.

Yang threw Blake a look, her girlfriend nearly drooling over the schematics, wide-eyed and searching. She looked up.

“Twin I-19 Plasmacasters?” she asked, “I thought Ember Shroud was being fitted with a GD6 Chain Sword?”

Maria nodded, grateful to have an appreciative audience. She pointed to the map.

“She’s got a plasma sword under the stabilizers. Like Oz said, we fixed her up just to match you huntresses,”

Blake grinned, full and nerdy. Yang smiled just watching her. Blake felt the affectionate flicker over the intense curiosity and pulled back, fixing the blonde with a smirk.

“Say ‘thank you, Maria’,” she curled. Yang laughed. Looked to the tiny old woman.

“Thank you, Maria,” she said, sincere and hearty.

“Yes, well,” she waved, “Just don’t break her,”

* * *

 

It was a Conn-Pod exercise. The last step before they graduated.

Stay in the Pod for 72 hours straight in order to simulate a malfunctioned or emergency evacuated Pod LOCCENT couldn’t get at. Seventy-two hours in the same space, eating the rations every Pod was equipped with. The Drivesuits took care of bodily cleansing, wicking away sweat and oil as a natural part of protecting the electromyography sensors connecting their bodies’ impulses to the Jaeger. Apparently wrestling Grimm to the ground was going to be sweaty work.

The suits also served to provide oxygen.

Hours 0 through 12 had been spent in idle conversation, Yang content to narrate a stream of consciousness to Blake, the girl responding in kind. Blake spent a while recruiting Yang’s help in converting the oxygen-conversion mechanisms in their suits to work on a larger scale and removing their helmets. Twelve through 24 was mostly slept through, changing shifts every few hours. On waking, they did callisthenic exercises, challenging each other to contests, easy encouragement exchanged. After 40, Yang had started to design games for them to play, Blake amused and entertaining her enthusiasm. Clearing a rousing round of ‘guess that shadow animal’, Yang reclined on the floor.

“Think LOCCENT is monitoring this?”

Blake smirked, flipping through the emergencies manual for the second time, “If they are, I pity them. Poor Winter,”

Yang snorted, “I’ve never pitied Winter a day in my life,”

“I constantly empathize with the way you treat her. If the woman hasn’t been canonized as a Saint yet, there’s been an injustice,”

“I’m not that bad,” she protested. She let her head fall back against the wall and addressed the roof, “Am I that bad, Winter?”

Blake chuckled to herself as Yang started chattering at the ceiling.

“That Ironwood, he’s an ass, isn’t he?” she waited, “Hello? Anyone home? Yoo-hoo,”

Her nose wrinkled, “Well, I guess if no one’s watching, we’re free and clear to pass time any way we like, huh?”

Blake’s eyebrow quirked, her smile pressing knowing and wholly in agreement. Yang’s smile sharpened.

“Hey, non-existent monitors, feel free to turn your volume down. Blake and I are gonna have sex,”

Head against the wall, she waited. Looked to Blake, who shrugged. The brunette put the manual down, stood, and stretched. She breathed, locking devastating, hungry eyes on Yang. She fingered the zipper at her throat, pulling it down to her belly button in an oxygen-sucking maneuver that Yang swore could level cities. Cream skin and breasts cupped lovingly in black lace dried her mouth, a soft moan ripping clean from her soul.

Immediately, a startling scream and crackle split into the Conn-Pod.

“Cadets Belladonna and Xiao Long, please refrain from engaging in sexual intercourse,”

Blake looked up, wondering where the camera was positioned. Yang frowned.

“It’s one thing to be a tight ass. Another thing entirely to be a cock block,”

Blake hummed, playing with the zipper at her navel.

“In a survival situation, it would benefit us to strengthen our pilot bond in the event Ember Shroud becomes operable,”

Yang grinned at the girl, biting her lip.

It took too long for Ironwood’s voice to come back over the speaker.

“I repeat, do not engage in sexual intercourse in the Conn-Pod,”

Yang sighed, tipping her hand, “This exercise is already unrealistic. Why are they pretending like my last request before I die _isn’t_ going to be to see you naked one last time?”

Blake laughed in her Blake-like way, all reverb and bells, zipping her circuitry suit shut.

“Because everyone thinks you’re going to ask to see Winter in civilians. That’s what I’d use mine for,”

Yang’s eyes widened, “My God, you’re right. I’m an idiot,”

Blake’s head tipped back in laughter.

They made it out of the 72 hours unchanged and unhurt. Finally stripping out of the Drivesuits felt like shedding a whole skin. It was heavenly. They put uniforms back on, dying for a shower. Out in the hall, they ran into the English-French pair clicking and murmuring to one another. Lena turned, perking and waving.

“Hullo loves! You hear the news?”

Blake shook her head, “We just finished the 72 Sim,”

Lena sucked her teeth in sympathy,

“We got out yesterday,” she grinned, nodding at her partner, “But guess what Ame caught wind of?” she cheered, eyes manic. The woman grinned, whipping a pad of paper from her jacket, “And since you’re the last ones out, that means… L’see,” she said, running a finger down the page, “Ayla and Jesse were booted, the sisters nearly killed each other, and the Japanese couple bowed out. Michiru got confirmed pregnant! Haruka, that bloody tall butch, apparently cried out of that pretty androgynous face, I hear. ‘Grats for them, and for us, eh? We’re Rangers now!”

Lena jumped, cheering and shouting, into Amelie’s arms, the ballerina catching her and smiling with her eyes.

Yang’s eyebrow rose, looking to Blake, “ _They didn’t know we were already promised Ember Shroud,_ ” she said in Hebrew. French Canadian was difficult to understand for native French speakers, but there was too much overlap to risk it.

Blake followed the line of thought easily, her return quick and roiling, “ _I didn’t realize everyone else hadn’t been assigned,_ ”

* * *

 

Their assignments came through the day before graduation.

[Lima: Viridian Twin, Arkos Valiant]

[Hong Kong: Relic Warrior, Atlesian Paladin]

[Anchorage: Ember Shroud]

[Sydney: Widow Tracer, Trident Sol]

Their goodbyes were bittersweet but excited. The Malachite sisters would go to Lima with Jaune and Pyrrah; Oscar and Ozma Pine to Hong Kong next to Ciel and Penny. Sydney got Lena and Amelie, Neptune and Sun. Blake and Yang were given to Anchorage. To their immense displeasure, Ironwood would be crowning it the LOCCENT mission command headquarters.

But graduation meant a shiny new mint of dog tags for all of them, and a promotion. No one in the word will do and be what they will, so it fit that their new ranks reflected it.

“Ranger Xiao Long, Ranger Belladonna,” Winter saluted them when they touched the helipad in Anchorage, Yang flagging a returned salute to allow the woman to put her arm down. They were the first of all the pilots to arrive at their new station, a strategic move to ensure safety, as the Jaegers had to be disassembled and shipped to their new homes. Anchorage was a key point to get up and running first, for mission control HQ as well as a tactical vantage point in the Pacific.

“You stationed here?” Yang shouted over the helicopter’s slowing blades.

Winter nodded.

“I’ve been reassigned as Ironwood’s Aide,”

Yang grimaced, “Sorry about that,”

Winter didn’t comment, Blake reaching out to shake her hand. Winter looked relieved at the formalized conduct.

“I’m glad it’s you,” she said, a political animal lurking in the subtext of her tones.

Winter understood.

If they were going to be babysat, it might as well be by someone they trusted.

As far as Shatterdomes went, it was the same as Vladivostok’s. But as Rangers, they had the ability to leverage for amenities, more a return to life as usual for officers. They were assigned a room more similar to an apartment than a barracks bay. It even had a sofa and a dining table.

Maria had come with them to oversee Ember Shroud’s build. In the mean time, the new Rangers didn’t have a lot to do, Winter petitioning Ironwood for a week of leave.

If his agreement had been reluctant, Winter didn’t let on. It was during this time that Blake met Ruby, Yang subsequently introduced to Kali and Ghira Belladonna. The conversation about it had been short, and like most conservations they had, post-coital.

“Where do you want to go to meet Ruby in Vancouver?”

Blake’s satiated look morphed amused as she looked down at Yang’s head, “I’m going to meet your sister in Vancouver?”

Yang grinned, kissed Blake’s stomach and re-settled over the planted kiss. Blake’s hands hadn’t yet stopped twining through her hair.

“Yeah. You’ve met digitally, but it’s not the same. She really wants to meet you,”

Blake merely chuckled, fingernails scratching soothing patterns over Yang’s scalp. It hadn’t really been a question of where, but her responses were enough to confirm the underlying what.

Silence lulled between them, split only by Blake’s flicker of uncertainty. Yang lifted her head fully, a wrinkle between her eyebrows. Blake palliated it under a thumb, wiping the question away.

“Do you want to meet my mother? And my step father?”

Yang blinked, her chest filtered through with hesitation and tentative hope. Hope was always a complex feeling, difficult to pin down a source.

“Yeah,” she finally responded, sure and determined. Yang crawled up the bed, dropping a kiss between Blake’s breasts.

“Yeah, I want to meet them. I know things are always weird between you, but they’re still apart of your life. I want to be apart of your life,”

Blake’s hands caught her face in a delicate cradle.

“You are,” she said, Yang’s nose skimming hers, “Of anything, it’d be more about them meeting you,”

Yang snorted at the image.

She wrinkled her nose.

“Well in that case, I need to meet him so I can settle on your dowry. Does he have any land? Sheep? Cattle would be preferred. I’m gonna need compensation if I’m gonna fuck his step daughter on the reg,”

Blake arched a brow, lips tweaking.

“I doubt he’d trade a prized cow for a pig,”

Yang laughed, delighted and deserved. Blake allowed a kiss, Yang’s sighed, “God, I’m in love with you,” salving the quip.

Ruby was scheduled first. They had rented a car to pick her up from the airport and waited for Ruby to emerge from the swamp of baggage claim. If ever. Yang leaned against the hood of the car, hands pulling Blake to stand between her legs.

Blake Belladonna was the only woman on the planet who could wear black, high-waisted jeans, heeled boots, and a simple off the shoulder top and still look like she had caught the last flight from Milan’s fashion week. Yang wore aviators, skinny jeans, knee-high brown boots and a leather jacket over a button up.

“You know, tomorrow will be the first time we’ll be out of a single mile radius of the other in 8 months,”

Blake hummed, stroked over the velvet soft skin behind Yang’s ear.

“They do say absence makes the heart grow fonder,”

Yang nodded, wise and appreciative, “Yeah, well. Sex can do that too,”

Blake eyed the car’s hood, “Not the best of first impressions, but definitely a good story to tell at Christmas,”

Yang laughed.

“I think Ruby would rather die than see her sister in law naked,”

Blake lifted a brow, “Didn’t you just skip a few steps, there champ?”

Yang frowned, faking concentration. Blake smirked, rolling her eyes and drawing Yang’s face up for a kiss.

Something close to a spidey-sense licked at Yang’s neck. Blake pulled back frowning and looking around, instantly spotting the phone camera pointed their way. Instead of hiding, the camera –wielder trained the phone higher, enthused by the attention. Blake shifted, uncomfortable. She cleared her throat, Yang’s blood starting up a slow simmer at the dusting of distress she felt.

“Hey,” Blake took her attention, her smile private and engaging, “It’s alright,” she massaged a thumb over Yang’s ear, “It was going to happen eventually,”

Yang’s jaw flexed, still feeling the prickle crawling over Blake’s skin, “You’re not a zoo attraction,” she growled, “You’re my girlfriend. They have no right-,”

“I know,” Blake soothed, “You’re right. But I’d rather be your girlfriend than your conjugal visit bunny because you killed a man for taking my picture,”

Yang broke, the light in Blake’s eyes gilded and pleased. She laughed.

“Fine,” Yang responds, “Just this once, I’ll be merciful,” she tugged at Blake’s belt loops gently, “Would you be alright with kissing me, knowing we have an audience?”

Blake slid an eyebrow up in challenge, “Is this a voyeurism test, or an actual question?”

Yang chuckled, “Can’t it be both?”

Blake smiled, tucking a strand of fly-away blonde hair back into its place, “I’m going kiss you because it’s what I want to do. I don’t care what anyone regards as newsworthy or not,”

“Oh you’re going to make the news,” Yang hummed, hands splaying into near-dangerous territory, “I’d put your ass on the front page of every newspaper if I could,” she grinned. “You’ve got a killer ass, babe. Lethal. Hazardous to the entire population,”

Blake cracked, laughing in Yang’s arms. She rolled her eyes, laying a gentle kiss to Yang’s upturned lips.

“You’re ridiculous, and I kind of don’t like you,”

“As long as there’s a ‘kind of’,” Yang smirked.

They kissed again, chaste and affectionate. Yang stood up from the car and felt her eyebrows raise.

“Real glad you’re suddenly okay with being breaking news, babe,”

Blake felt the crackling annoyance and turned around. It wasn’t just one camera, but a small wall of them. Like a slow-moving shrub of electronic squares. It was only a matter of time before someone got brave.

“Yang, who’s that?” a faceless voice called.

Blake grimaced, the unconscious back slide of her foot instantly irritating Yang, “Israeli Princess,” she yelled back, “I’m protecting her virginity. Next?”

The gathering crowd divided itself into giggles and confused mutterings. Blake’s lips twitched, Yang’s hand wrapping protectively around her waist.

“What’s her name?”

“Are you dating?”

Yang huffed a laugh. Blake sensed the movement before it happened, Drift fully dilated and flowing. She caught Yang’s hand, the blonde spinning her out dramatically and back in, twisting and dipping Blake before laying a hand to her own chest.

“Dear God, what _is_ this beauty’s name?” Yang cried, clenching a fist, “Fatality, thy name is woman,”

Blake chuckled, this public Yang so sweet and happy to show her off for the first time. Show off this new side of herself; preening in the skin of a kept woman. Yang tickled inside, glad her intentions had caught Blake just right. Plus, the girl was a sucker for a good literature reference.

“Easy, Shakespeare,” Blake chuckled between them, “That play didn’t go so well for some,”

Yang winked and brought her upright, the crowd well and truly formed by now, attracted to the growing semi-circle around their car.

“Come on, Yang! Tell us!”

Yang appraised the brunette at her side as if for the first time.

“I have no idea, I just met her,” Yang shouted back, “She’s a great kisser though, anyone want her?”

A big laugh, and then Yang caught the sight of a bright red jacket in the corner of her eye. Blake turned her head in the next millisecond. Ruby was jumping up and down, waving at the back of the crowd. Yang tipped her head, motioning to the car.

She felt a tug in her chest. She caught Blake’s eye, the golden irises flickering playfully. Blake hitched a brow, and then nodded in conspiratory assent.

Suddenly, Yang twisted, lifting her sunglasses in a mask of shock and staring over the crowd’s head, “My _God_ , is that Jacques Schnee with a prostitute?” she shouted.

The entire crowd simultaneously turned, Yang instantly ducking. Blake planted a hand on the car’s hood and vaulted over it, agile as a cat. She slid into the passenger seat just in time for Ruby’s door to slam shut.

Yang peeled out of the space, and left the crowd behind.

She breathed, grinning over her sister’s cackle of laughter.

Blake turned in the passenger seat.

“Hi, Ruby, it’s nice to finally meet you,” she held a hand out, “Blake,”

Yang grinned a soul-warming joy when Blake only smiled, wide and lovely and unsurprised when Ruby grasped the offered hand in both of hers and squealed.

* * *

 

Goodwitch had been the first of the G-scientists to truly understand the breach. Early on, people had thought the Grimm were an effect of nuclear testing and radiation poison in the Pacific. Turns out, it was due to a dimensional tear at the bottom of the Mariana Trench. The Grimm weren’t just otherworldly; they were from another galaxy. In conjunction with dust-light tech, the PPDC had soon figured out a way to monitor the breach’s activity.

And after nearly nine months of silence since Sydney, their scanners picked up a signal. Ember Shroud was called up.

“Category I, four hours from the Miracle Mile off the coast of Canada,” Winter briefed as Blake and Yang walked into the Drivesuit Room. It still smelled like Styrofoam, their battle armor freshly unpacked. Winter circled them like a hawk as the technicians suited the pilots up.

“You should make it in time if you hurry, so you won’t need to be dropped in. Oobleck’s named it Beringel. No visuals yet, so you’re going in blind. I’ll be in the LOCCENT tower with Ironwood,”

Yang smirked, helmet in hands and Drivesuit secure.

“Isn’t that _Colonel_ Ironwood, Win?”

Winter was already agitated, Yang’s levity deeply unappreciated. Blake pushed Yang away.

“Right,” she drawled, looking to the rigid corporal and nodding, “See you in there,”

“Good luck,” Winter clipped, turning and stalking off.

Yang rolled her shoulders. Blake smirked, twisting her hair with one hand to allow the helmet on smoothly. Yang did the same.

“Wait,” Yang stopped her. Blake looked up, game face interrupted. Yang wrapped the arm bearing her helmet around Blake’s waist, other still holding her own hair. She stepped, kissed her girlfriend, and finished suiting. When she looked up again through the helmet’s clear face, she saw her co-pilot.

“Let’s do this,” she grinned.

They filed into the Conn-Pod with matching flutters in their stomachs. This was the trial run of the Jaeger program. What they’ve trained for. They knew it worked, had run tests and simulators until they nearly went blind, it was just a matter of proving it. They stepped into the footholds, the familiar whirr of circuitry connecting. Yang slipped her right arm into a halo-shaped scanner, the official right arm. Blake did the same with the left.

“Ranger Xiao Long, Ranger Belladonna,”

Winter’s voice rang clear through the Pod, Yang grinning and reaching to hold the intercom.

“Morning, Winter, how would you like to see a show?”

The sigh didn’t transfer over comms, but Blake laughed, knowing it had occurred.

“Colonel Ironwood is on the deck,” she crisped.

“Engage drop, Corporal,” Ironwood’s tones droned out.

The preparation routine scrolled past Yang’s ears. Her heart kicked a high hat against her stomach, excitement rolling through her veins. She only refocused at the sound of Blake’s voice.

“Ember Shroud- ,”

Yang grinned, “-ready for drop,”

In the next second, the Conn-Pod released, flying straight down in a controlled descent. It aligned and linked with the rest of Ember Shroud. LOCCENT’s commands rolled over their data screens overhead.

Coupling confirms.

Pilot to pilot protocol, engaged.

Pilot to pilot connection, engaged.

Ember Shroud, bay 1.

The count down.

And then the handshake.

It was less jarring now a day, Ozpin having refined the PONS. But suddenly, Blake was everywhere.

In her heart; her head; her lungs; her legs. She felt what Blake felt, thoughts overlaying in and out of each other like threads amongst fabric. Their senses were indivisible. Together, they were one in the same, yet separately motioned. Able to think and move independently, but choosing not to.

Yang smirked at the casual reading of a successful neural bridge, Blake laughing at her smug satisfaction at the same time as adjusting the left arm’s stabilizers. Amazing.

“Neural handshake strong and holding,” Winter said overhead.

Yang punched at a panel, “Right hemisphere calibrating,”

“Left hemisphere calibrating,”

Winter added sound reads on proofing and transmitting, Ironwood taking the control back and reaffirming their orders. From 260 ft up, Yang looked out to see the hangar doors opening, Ember Shroud’s platform moved towards the runway at the end of it.

“Got it, Sir,” Yang grunted, “Go, kill, come back, and have champagne,”

She didn’t receive an answer, but Blake’s curling joy was a certificate of a well-landed joke.

“Ready?” she called over once Ember Shroud had made it.

Blake laughed, free and wild, “With you? Always. Let’s go fishing,”

And then they stepped.

Stepped again.

In stereo. In harmony. In such synchrony it wasn’t even worth noting. From the corner of her eye, Yang could see Blake’s mirror image of her own movements, truly not knowing who was mimicking who. It didn’t matter. Because in a Jaeger, you were 300 feet tall and indestructible.

A walking continent, a freak titan of physics.

Invincible.

After the fight, after the fear, the thrill, the victory. After they made it back to land, Blake would make a statement at the press conference unintentionally cementing herself as the PPDC’s new face; the public’s new darling.

But here, Yang churned her feet, gears gliding with well-oiled precision as close to natural walking as possible. Ember Shroud obeyed their orders, wading out into the ocean. Within minutes, they were knee-deep in the Pacific. The sea floor would have crushed the lungs of a human, but they merely felt its pull as a flicker, Ember Shroud so powerful that weight was a ticklish sensation.

They waded to the deepest parts, miles out from the coastline. The churning ocean was pitch dark, not yet illuminated by the day’s sun. It reached only to Ember’s knee.

Winter’s voice rang over their comm link.

“Ember Shroud, be advised, Grimm signature is on screen and steady. Do you have a visual?”

“Negative,” Yang grit, eyes scanning the ocean while Blake whipped through the overheads and sensors.

And then there was an inhuman, rippling scream, and they were thrown forward, shock absorbers catching. They stumbled in the Conn, feet scrambling for balance in time with Ember Shroud. The Grimm had snuck up behind them and launched out from underwater.

In tandem, they turned, stepping back to assess.

The thing was enormous. The size of Ember Shroud herself. A skyscraper. Inky, exhaust pipe-grey mottled its skin, scaled in some places and not over others. It had a massive forehead, red florescent eyes a specter of hatred and animal killing intent.

It had two enormous arms that, standing straight, reached clear from its shoulders down into the water.

Blake instantly strategized, Yang acting on her plan in the same breath. Jointly, they ducked down and stepped inside; a classic boxer’s juke, punctuated with a thousand freight-train’s worth of an uppercut whipping the Grimm’s head back on connection.

The Grimm screamed, arms flinging out and smashing into the curled right arm Yang and Blake held for protection. It was _fast._

But Ember Shroud was faster.

In the same block’s movement, Yang quick stepped forward for a right cross, Blake diverting away with her controlling left hand, the same image in their heads.

“Charging Plasma gauntlets,” she fired out, fingers tapping against a screen.

The Grimm roared, body spun away from the force of the punch. Just as Yang finished her move, Blake met her in time to assist the left arm’s next action. They curled Ember Shroud’s fists together, both extending arms over their heads and bringing it down in a hammer over the Grimm’s exposed neck.

It flailed, arm swinging out to pound at Ember Shroud’s right side.

They both hissed, taking the impact. Yang immediately clamped down on the arm, catching the Grimm with it’s back turned to them.

“Blake!”

“Got it!”

Together, they pulled the Grimm backwards and off-balance, right arm wrapping around it’s monstrous head in a lock, left arm glowing bright yellow with the plasma gauntlet’s charge. With a heavy grunt, they delivered rapid-fire blasts to the Grimm’s side and back, the nuclear-powered bursts searing through scale and hide, Grimm grey blood oozing by the metric ton. Hit after hit while the Grimm thrashed against the hold.

In a clear minute, it was all over. The Grimm went limp, death throes quit and silent. They panted, eyes wide and searching.

“Winter, do you have a read?” Blake snapped.

“Negative, Grimm signature negative. I repeat, negative,”

They panted, and released the Grim. It sank beneath the ocean, dead.

Helicopters whirled around like flies, the massive floodlights of the Shatterdome visible in the distance.

Blake turned to Yang, breathing hard. They didn’t need to speak to feel the incredulous thunder of unbelievable relief they felt. It was a miracle, but not. It was a prayer answered, but scraped and scratched and clawed after.

They had killed a Grimm.

Humanity had a chance.

They returned to Anchorage, Ember Shroud stepping slow and high over the pin-small crowd gathered on the tarmac. In reality, it was a hundred press reporters. It was from this press conference, Ironwood speaking solemn and unsmiling, that the world saw hope. He bade Blake and Yang forward. Introduced them as the rare breed they were.

“Jaeger pilots, Ranger Yang Xiao Long and Ranger Blake Belladona,”

It was here that Blake, still Drivesuit clad and flying high on adrenaline and the soul-searing kiss she and Yang had shared, had made her statement. The Associated Press had asked her what piloting a Jaeger felt like.

Yang had watched her answer with an equal amount of awe. Hair jet-black and trailing in the arctic air, the sun just rising behind her. Dawn glistened over sweating skin, her Circe set aflame. Blake’s golden eyes could have powered cities; could have leveled buildings; started and ended wars.

“There are things you can’t fight,” she had said, “acts of God. You see a hurricane coming, and you have to get out of the way. But in a Jaeger… Suddenly, you can fight the hurricane,” her head lifted, fierce and victorious.

“You can win,”

* * *

 

Yang propped her feet up on the kitchen table, news crawling over her scroll. She bit into an apple, chortling at the bold headline announcing the PPDC’s full reveal of the Jaeger program. It looked like a fucking fantasy football draft, pilots and Jaegers accompanied by statistics and pictures. There was currently a poll for something or another sitting underneath it.

She scrolled. Sighed.

Tossed the news away and pulled up a Sudoku app. If she wanted to see nothing but Jaegers and pictures of her girlfriend, she’d walk down the hall. Her stomach swooped in a light tingle, the girl approaching. Yang smiled to herself, teeth sinking into her fruit again. Blake came up from behind her and threw a stack of papers to the table, breathless with excitement and rounding to lock eyes with Yang.

“We can get her to sprint,”

Yank blinked, finishing the bite through her apple. She looked over the notebook sheaves Blake had apparently ripped out. They were complicated; numbers, squiggles, straight lines, and asterisks decorating the page. Yang was a pilot by trade; flight school, advanced avionics, and Jaeger engineering under her belt.

Through a mouthful, “What?”

“Ember Shroud,” Blake nodded, ignoring the abhorrent manners of her girlfriend and leaning back to cross her arms, “They’ve never made a Jaeger that can actually sprint, only run. I think we can make the Mark-3’s sprint. A controlled acceleration,”

Yang grinned, eyes scanning the papers still. Blake loved to run. Yang just liked to go fast. She swallowed. Pulled her legs off the table.

“Sweet. Let’s give Maria a call,”

Four months later, a Category II called Clawhook threatened the Bering Strait. It had thrown Ember Shroud for a loop, but Blake’s nuclear-burst sprint had been the key to their finishing blow.

* * *

 

Yang and Blake’s faces went up on buses; Ember Shroud on buildings; their signatures for sale at auctions. They turned into rock stars. News crews declared them the saviors of the world. Fan pages went up, Internet wars exploding into debate over the most powerful Jaeger, the best team, the most attractive.

The PPDC reacted the way Yang knew they would. They wanted them in parades, on the news, speaking at college campuses. Most of their time was spent in Anchorage, but the PPDC encouraged them to take leave and represent the Jaeger program’s success - a search for financial backers.

Yang had flatly refused most of the ideas, actually scoffing at the latest.

“I never even fucking went to college,” she bit, arms crossing and glaring at some PR chief.

“I understand your reluctance, Ranger Xiao Long, but-,”

“Sir,” Blake had cut in. Yang was underfed, under slept, and likely to cause physical harm to the pushy suit, “Thank you. But we decline. We have plans,”

Regardless of the fact that they hadn’t even heard when the speech had been set for. Instead, Blake had called Winter to step in and advocate to let the pilots do what they wanted.

They appeared on late night talk shows and gave select interviews. On one memorable two-day adventure, they guest starred in a popular network’s lead hospital drama. Yang had nearly cried, laughing so hard at the script. She tossed it back to the producer and told him no dice until they gave Blake a part that didn’t require her to be half-naked.

“Since when does a CAT scan require side boob?” she chuckled.

They’d settled on Blake being allowed to play a visiting specialist called in to consult on Yang, a flirtatious but dying paramedic eventually revealed to be Blake’s covert girlfriend. A novella plot twist of an insurance loophole.

It had made it to the season’s gag reel, and subsequently broke over the Internet; Blake striding into the patient’s room in a white lab coat, stethoscope, glasses, and pinned hair. Yang’s jaw had genuinely dropped, her curse bleeped out, eyes wide. The sex they had that night had been in character.

“What can I say?” Blake had purred against Yang’s strung-out physique, “I’m a method actor,”

So much attention came with drawbacks Yang was familiar with, Blake only having experienced it through the Drift.

“How’d they get this picture?” Blake found herself clucking every other day. Yang would only shrug and take the scroll from her hands, smiling and drawing her back into the present. Paparazzi followed them anytime they stepped out of Anchorage, in Ember Shroud or otherwise.

Their two year anniversary dinner was celebrated over a weekend leave. They decided to go to Los Angeles, catching a casual dinner and a sweet stroll through a bookstore. Despite sunglasses and hats, a keen-eyed dog walker interrupted them on their way to ice cream.

It spiraled from there.

Yang had always been good with people. It was difficult to truly upset her, the only time she’d gotten pissed at a fan had been when one had made physical contact with Blake uninvited. Ironically, the violated had been the only thing capable of saving her violator from a broken jaw. Other than that, Yang was more than happy to stop for a few minutes, sign things, and chat. People approached Blake with equal enthusiasm, the brunette merely nodding and listening in her own kind way.

A small gathering had started to pile up, Yang engaged with a man claiming to be a life they had saved from their third Grimm in Seattle, Taijitu. Yang liked these ones the best. Not for narcissistic reasons, quite the opposite. Grounding affirmation. They reminded her that the glorious victory and glamor of fame shoved in their hands were simple trinkets. Blake once told her that it was the knowing Yang liked; these were the things she truly fought for. People.

For Blake, her favorites were much smaller. Today, it was the wide-eyed girl hiding behind a parental figure, her mouth parted and awed. Yang felt Blake’s heart flare immediately, and looked. She crouched forward, smiling and crooking a finger at the cowed young figure.

The girl couldn’t have been older than eight, just growing into a tomboy and unsure. Her mother placed her hand on her back and pushed lightly, smile encouraging. She shuffled, eyes locking on the blonde hero.

Yang grinned, “Hey, what’s your name?”

“Vernal,” she said quietly, fists clenched. Yang nodded.

“Nice. I’m Yang. I like your hair,” her eyebrows wiggled. Vernal blushed, smiling back and reaching for the shorn locks. She paused, bit her young lip. Frowned.

“The girls at school made fun of me,” she said, “They said I look like a boy,”

Yang frowned, “They don’t sound very nice,”

Vernal shook her head, the blonde wrinkling her nose.

“Well, you should tell them that only cool girls have short hair,” she smiled, lifting a brow. Vernal mimicked the expression, eyes brightening. Yang arched back a little, looking her over and humming dramatically, “Hmm. I think you’re missing something, though. To be a cool girl, you’ve gotta have shades,”

She plucked the aviators off her face and gently slid the arms over Vernal’s ears, the girl looking stunned and blushing cherry red.

“Try not to give those girls too hard a time, okay?” Yang winked, laying her palm flat. Vernal’s smile was monument as she high-fived her hero.

“Okay!”

She stood straight, Vernal copying Yang’s posture, glasses big and goofy-looking on her proud face. The little girl shuffled sideways and waved at the gently smiling brunette watching. She went red all the way to her ears.

“Hi, Blake,”

Blake waved, gentle and warm.

Later, Ruby told them ‘Yang Blake Xiao Long kid?’ was the most Google’d search term of the month.

* * *

 

They were winning.

They were kicking Grimm ass.

Around the Pacific, a Jaeger deployed at least every four months. Ember Shroud was called up twice as often, protector of the Arctic, Canadian coast, and Western US coast.

Yang jumped out of bed to a room awash in a red-lit glow, Winter knocking on their door. She hadn’t felt nerves in a long time, only adrenaline and bit-chomping thrill. Blake huffed a laugh, rolling to snuggling into Yang’s residual warmth in their sheets. Yang’s excitement reverberated into her chest, more efficient than any alarm clock.

“C’mon, babe!” Yang grinned, yanking spandex and a sports bra on. She knelt back on the bed in a glorified assault, arms digging under Blake and lifting, sheets and all. Blake screamed, laughter flailing against the solid joy in Yang’s steel-flexed arms. Yang giggled manically, crossing their apartment and depositing her sheet-wrapped girlfriend in the bathroom and closing the door.

Blake came back fixing her hair and half-dressed, Yang having set a small breakfast out for her.

“Someday, that won’t be charming anymore,” she drolled.

Yang laughed out loud, smirking, “Maybe some day. But not this one,”

The blonde stole a kiss and swatted Blake’s ass on her way to the bathroom. Blake didn’t bother pretending she didn’t love it. She studied the data sent, her eyes swift in her reading. Ten minutes after the first one, Winter knocked again to take them to the Drivesuit room. The drop, the Drift, the beast, the battle. It was all the same. A Jaeger was only as strong as it’s pilots, and Blake and Yang held the record.

The entirety of Anchorage would celebrate their victorious homecoming. The PPDC District downtown threw open their doors to the entire base. But Yang and Blake had a tradition.

They went to see Sage.

A hulking, dark-skinned Alaska native with roman numerals decorating his throat, huge wings on his exposed chest, regardless of the frigid temperatures. And Yang would sit backwards in a chair, talking to Blake and playing with her hand while Sage’s gun buzzed a soothing irritant behind her.

Beringel.

Clawhook.

Taijitu.

Nuckelavee.

Hammerjaw.

Wyvern.

Centered on her back, running between shoulder blades and engrained into her very nervous system. Just the names. None of the fear. They were a matter of pride, a lesson learned with every letter carved into her skin.

Then they switched, Blake selecting a more artistic commemoration. She had asked Sage for a larger working piece, inking over her left hip a stylized version of Ember Shroud’s symbol. With every Grimm they took down, Sage added another type of dragon flower blossom to a surrounding laurel. It was beautiful. Within three years and six Grimm, Blake had a bouquet blooming over her side.

Yang loved it, Blake’s milk-white skin a canvas of memory and love. Stripped completely naked, the effect was breath taking.

She went out of her way to kiss every petal.

* * *

 

Blake was petting her hair with one hand, reading with the other.

They were lounging in bed, the sheets hours cooled but still occupied for the sheer comfort of it. Yang laved a lightly sucking kiss to Blake’s hip, the brunette looking down at the call.

“What are you doing today?”

Blake ran her thumb over Yang’s bottom lip, just to touch her.

“Maria and I are going to look more into our dust-light reactor,” her voice came low and unused. Yang dipped to kiss her thigh, looking up again quickly.

“Nerd stuff,”

Blake rolled her eyes, lips bowing as she traced a fine blonde eyebrow. Yang hummed.

“I think I’m gonna see if any of the coaches want to spar,”

“Bolin’s off today,”

“Hell yes,” Yang sighed, “Think he’d be down?”

“If he beat Roy the other day, he should be feeling cocky,”

“Nice,”

“You know the rule,” Blake’s eyes flickered, playful and mocking. Yang scoffed.

“How could I forget? ‘If I break my nose, you’ll break up with me.’ I’d never forget you’re so superficial,”

Blake laughed, finger skimming the astonishingly straight nose for a career fighter. Yang had related the record with smug pride, and Blake had never let her forget it.

“It’s true. I only like you for your body,” she taunted, setting the book aside. Her smile contradicted completely the bite of her tone. Yang’s insides sparkled with joy as she rose to all fours, crawling up the bed as Blake sunk down.

“Well in that case,” Yang smirked, “Could I hold it against you?”

Blake laughed, hands going to cradle the precious jawline, “Bad,” she giggled, “Awful. Terrible,”

Yang let her teeth bump Blake’s before they met again for a smiling kiss.

“You know,” she whispered, “With you, I really do feel... on top of the world,”

Blake forced a counterfeit groan through her laughter, pushing Yang off of her in a smooth roll of their bodies.

“Horrible,” she kissed, “Dreadful. Shocking. Absolute worst,”

They laughed, deep and loving and only interrupted by the inopportune red flash lighting up their room. Winter knocked on their door. Yang sighed. Reached for a kiss.

“Time to go to work,”

Blake chuckled, lifting off of her girlfriend.

“Another day at the office,”

* * *

 

They were unconquerable.

But the bigger they are, the harder they fall. Because then, the Grimm got smarter.

Yang had been woken by a shocking jolt of pain, rolling to her side and reaching for Blake in a half second. She was sitting up in bed, shaking fingers clutched around her scroll. The eyes that always flickered and laughed for Yang were amber trapped grief.

“Arkos Valiant went down,” Blake’s voice trembled, “Jaune’s dead,”

A chunk of ice dropped to the pit of her stomach.

She curled around Blake, the brunette immediately crawling into her lap and crying. Her heart hammered, mind a whirlwind of rejection, anger, bewilderment. Pain. It was there, Blake’s wracked anguish shaking too hot in her arms, that Yang, for the first time in a long time, felt fear.

* * *

 

G-Scientists were frantic to figure out what happened. Jaegers were no longer allowed solo drop missions. Only two months went by before the next attack. A Category III Grimm. The first ever.

Atlesian Paladin defied orders and sacrificed themselves to allow a damaged Relic Warrior the time to escape. Ciel and Penny didn’t make it. The Pine brothers were forcibly retired, Oscar walking with a cane; Ozma refusing to pilot without him. He called Yang days later, snarling that Ozpin had approached his wife Salem.

It was sickening.

When the Grimm Ursafiend took down Viridian Twin, Ironwood got his shit together. The Malachite Twins had been the first Drift Compatible pilots ever. Veterans. The Grimm had known just where to strike and when. It had been intelligent.

And the attacks were getting closer together. Goodwitch presented a chilling theory, “They’re preparing for something,” she’d urged Ironwood in front of the entire Anchorage company, “The breach is reading higher and higher activity levels. We believe they’re rallying. These are just… tests,”

“Tests?” He slanted, eyes brimming focused anger, “You mean to say the Grimm’s masters have been taking shots in the dark that took down _four_ Jaegers?”

Goodwitch didn’t back down, “They’re not guessing. Tests are trial runs of a developed concept. They know something, have prepared for it, and are about to use it in a fell swoop,”

Ironwood’s jaw had tightened, “Then we’d better be ready for it,”

He moved everyone back to Vladivostok. Their reunion with Lena and Amelie was tearful, Sun and Neptune getting big hugs and sorrowful sighs.

And then it was quiet.

Goodwitch reported increasing activity in the Mariana Trench, but no signs of opening. Ironwood ordered the pilots locked down in the Shatterdome, unwilling to risk their injury.

Blake ran with Lena everyday, a desperate habit designed to chase away thoughts and expend energy. They were confined to a track, something that prickled the skin and reminded with every footfall of the agitation they were trying to escape. Yang and Amelie watched from the bleachers, disgruntled for their partners. Yang sparred with Sun and Neptune, the boys complaining a one on one wasn’t even fair. She laughed, ribbing them. Blake clucked over the few shots they managed to get in.

“What is this?” Yang murmured lowly, frowning out over the hangar from a high railing. Blake leaned against the barrier on her right, observing the frantic sway of technicians and crews rushing from place to place below. She watched, a tech jumping out of his skin when his buddy suddenly dropped a wrench with a clatter.

“They’re scared,” she replied, right hand on the rail and gripping, “Ironwood’s got everyone wound up like a jack in the box. We’re all waiting for it to spring,”

Yang flexed her jaw, elbows on the bar, fingers woven together.

“Are you scared?”

Blake hummed. Yang could feel the answer, but they’d been together for three years, and she’d figured out that it soothed them both immensely to have the solidness of words. Blake had such beautiful thoughts.

“I worry,” Blake confesses, her free hand tracing Yang’s forearm, the newly occupied inner plane lovingly inked with belladonna blooms. She slipped her hand between Yang’s, the blonde lacing the digits together and covering the bundle with her left hand.

“I worry, but I know more firmly that we’re strong,” she continues, “We’re going to be fine as long as we’re together. We’ve always been the best fighters,”

Yang’s chest unknots, a crumpled page pressed smooth, “Melanie and Miltia were strong,”

Blake takes the doubt into her hands, rinses it clean under a river of surety and love with tender fingers.

“Their compatibility was strong, but we’re stronger,” she replies, kind and flexible, “They were born next to one another. We choose to be together,”

Yang nods, relaxes her hands to study the pale, slim-fingered hand in hers.

“I love your hands,” she said, not for the first time. Blake huffs, amused. Yang smiles at the appendage, “You’re just so… capable,”

She brings the knuckles to her mouth, planting a kiss and returning to her two-handed hold. They stood for long minutes, looking out into the Shatterdome’s cathedral-ceilinged hangar. Watched Ember Shroud’s unblinking gaze stare back at them.

Waited for the storm to come.

* * *

 

Two days after Yang’s 25th birthday, the Vladivostok alarm sounded through the compound. The readings coiled the tight atmosphere to a fever pitch.

It was too much new, too soon. The G-scientists were scrambling to check and recheck the readings, manually calculating over the system’s formula.

They named it the Double Event. Two Grimm. Both Category III’s.

Unheard of.

They had 12 hours to prepare before they appeared outside the Miracle Mile off of Japan, with no idea how to plan for it.

Blake and Yang had laced fingers, walked with Amelie, Lena, Sun, and Neptune to the briefing bay. It was a frantic relay of how to target two Grimm at once, punctuated with so many questioned variables on how the Grimm might behave in a group that its usefulness fell apart.

With eight hours to go, Blake pulled Yang from the gym. Untaped her hands, and kissed the wrists pounding with blood.

“Would you like to have dinner with me?”

Yang’s smile had been clean relief and unadulterated love. It was an idea they both coveted. Normalcy. It fit that Blake’s last true desire was to give them both something they so badly wanted. They nearly made it, too. Blake had made food, traditional Israeli with Yang’s beloved penchant for applesauce. She smiled at Yang uxoriously and asked if she would dance with her in their barracks apartment.

It was a date night as usual, escapism of the most heart felt need.

“Where do you see yourself in ten years?”

Blake smiled. The ghost drift between them was hewn into their blood now, synched to what felt like a molecular level. And Yang still managed to surprise her when she felt like it.

“Hmm,” Blake considered, burying her toes further into the couch’s cushions. Something bright and flashy played on mute in front of them as they idled on the sofa, Yang stretched out, Blake tucked into her side. A movie they’d seen 100 times. She pressed further into Yang, “Somewhere warm,”

“Got it. Back to Canada it is,”

Blake slapped her thigh, a mockery of a reprimand.

“I don’t know, really,” Blake said, “I’d like to be apart of rebuilding what the Grimm have destroyed. We’ll never save everyone, but we can help the people who are left,”

Yang pressed her lips to Blake’s temple, in love with the heart beating next to her. She waited for the dreams whirling in Blake’s compassionate soul.

“I’d like to sleep in till 8. Every day,” she sighed, stroking the soft skin of Yang’s sculpted thigh, “Go to the grocery and forget to bring the reusable bag. Fight with you over how long you’re in the garage tinkering with a car you’re never going to fix,”

Yang’s smile carved deep into her cheeks.

“I’m there?”

Blake scoffed, the unasked prompt clear and fond.

“Of course you’re there,” Blake crooned, “And you’re beautiful. You do all the gardening,” Yang snorted, Blake smiling through her narration, “You’re there when I come home from work. You’ll probably never learn how to load the dishwasher correctly, and for some reason, I can see you trying to dry our sheets by clothes line,”

“It makes them smell good,”

Blake laughed, deep in her own reverie. Swimming in fantasy. Her stroking stopped as she encountered a thought.

“Oh,”

Yang tipped her head, looking down at Blake’s midnight hair. Her chest sparked warm and soft. Surprised.

“Hm?” Yang prompted, waiting a second longer than she had anticipated. Blake breathed deeply. Relaxed.

“Would you want kids with me?”

Yang froze, ice fracturing through her chest. It went without saying that Blake felt it, but she only started up her slow caresses of Yang’s thigh again.

“I’ve never thought about it,” Yang whispered. Blake laughed aloud, a low, dry, _obviously_ sound so charged with love that Yang smiled at it. She pulled air through her nose, Blake’s conditioner her personal filter. Jasmine and the clean, milk-and-honey of her skin. She pictured it in her head.

The white picket fence. Nine-to-five girlfriend. Two-car garage. Blake would be gorgeous pregnant, all summer dresses and bare feet. Ruby would love a niece or nephew. Chasing a toddler through the house, Blake’s curls on top of a squealing little girl in pint-sized overalls. Tee ball games and hot chocolate.

“Would Ghira be pissed at me for knocking you up?”

Blake exploded with laughter. Yang grinned.

“Assuming you’d lose the coin toss,”

The blonde tipped her head back, laughing, “What, not even a rock-paper-scissors to decide who goes first?”

Blake didn’t miss the connotations of the word ‘first’ but let it go. Her voice dipped droll, “The last time we played rock-paper-scissors, it went on for an hour before we called it off,”

Yang chortled her warm remembrance. It was true. She had challenged Blake to the roschambo over something trivial, and instead made the discovery that Ghost Drifting rendered the contest moot. Winning was impossible. It was a draw every time.

“Fine. But I get to pick the coin,”

Blake chuckled.

“Do you really, though?” she asked, “Want kids?”

Yang smiled, Blake’s tone all curiosity and affectionate understatement. In a quick whirl, she tossed Blake underneath her on the couch, the woman instantly giggling madly under a barrage of kisses.

“You kidding? Of course,” Yang grinned, “Tons,” a kiss to the nose, “Little Blake-lettes running around?” the lips, “We’ll have a nest,” the cheek, “A gaggle,” the lips, “a whole den. A fucking mess of them,”

Blake squirmed frantically, laughing and pulling Yang closer still. The blonde settled, nose dipping to brush Blake’s. Blake breathed, eyes dancing.

“Some day. You promise?”

Yang nodded, soft and honest, “Promise,”

Yang kissed her without rush, and Blake hummed domestic appreciation.

Only when their door rang with loud knocks did they resurface, frowning at one another. They still had four hours. Yang got up from the couch, Blake trailing. At the reveal, concern lightened to curious.

“May I come in?” Winter asked, her jaw clamping and unlocking in painful-looking compressions.

Blake drew finely furred eyebrows together, worry etching into her features. Yang exchanged the expression, but backed away and nodded.

Winter cleared her throat, crossing the threshold.

“Thank you,” she said, “I suppose this is where you’ve been hiding out?”

“We’re not hiding,” Yang frowned.

“Winter,” Blake appealed, her honey and silk voice slow and sensible against the oddly bristled comment, “We just wanted one more night before anything changed. No one’s ever fought two Grimm, much less Category IIIs. Tomorrow will come, regardless of what we do. And what we want to do is just,” she glanced to the recovered softness in Yang’s eyes, the blonde reaching to link their hands, “We just want to be together,”

Winter breathed deeply, looking off and narrowing her eyes in what could only be annoyance.

“Ignorance of possibilities is foolish,” she replied, “You both are better planners than this. Strategy had always been your strong suit and I’m disappointed to see you forget that,”

Yang clenched a fist, a spark hitting her heart. But Winter’s clean rinse continued.

“The United Nations nor the PPDC has made any promise to either of you in the event of success or failure. If the other is hurt or killed,” she said, her patented severity losing speed, “But. The United States can. In a common law marriage, you are able to be legally bound, and thus stationed together. The Jaeger pilots have been scrambled. There’s… been talk of rearranging,” she worked her jaw, “among other things,” a throat clear, “as well, you and your partner will be allowed full medical decision making power and trusts,”

Winter stopped, her sales pitch awkward and hanging.

Blake’s hand twitched in Yang’s, the blonde not looking to know what Blake thought of this declaration. Winter straightened, drew her professionalism around her like a cloak of detachment while she waited.

“Well that’s some federally-funded bureaucratic bullshit if I’ve ever heard it,” Yang responded in a rake. Winter stared at her. Yang smiled, “Would you marry us, then?”

The elegant eyebrows flew. She looked suddenly very girlish, her hair now touching her shoulders and revealing a slight curl at the ends. Winter reached into her coat and withdrew several thick tri-fold sheaves of paper.

“I’ve already contacted Hassan,” she said, looking to Blake. The Israeli handler’s name and signature printed neatly on the pages Winter unfolded. Her voice was careful, relief and embarrassment apparent. Blake smiled, felt Yang’s grateful disbelief flicker through her chest.

“Thank you, Winter,” she said.

The woman tucked her hair behind her ear and nodded. Yang’s grin was massive, eclipsing the tense atmosphere Winter had brought with her. She turned to Blake, her eyes alight.

“I probably should have asked first, right?”

Blake’s eyebrow lifted, “Like I’d let you one-up me,”

Yang chuckled. She dropped Blake’s hand and turned to the corporal.

“Alright, Minister. Present the holy civil documents for us to kiss,”

Winter didn’t take the bait. She moved to their kitchen table and started dividing packets of paperwork. Yang looked to Blake and shrugged. It was thirty minutes, and as romantic as a root canal, but Winter collected her files back and started to flip through the pages impossibly fast, ensuring everything was in order. Yang stood and stretched.

Hands on hips, she looked around the apartment.

“Wow, married life feels a lot like dating life,” she wrinkled her nose. Looked to her laughing partner, “Can you still be my girlfriend? Just because I’m technically your wife now doesn’t mean I don’t want to date you,”

Blake smiled, standing as well.

“’Wife’ sounds so permanent,” she chuckled, Yang’s exhilaration infectious, “I wouldn’t want it getting around that I’ve gotten complacent,” she kissed Yang, “’Girlfriend’ always keeps people on their toes,” she smirked, eyes alive, lips twisted and happy. A screech of a chair announced Winter’s recorded satisfaction. She looked between the two of them, her body held consciously.

“I- uh- supposed, congratulations?” she tried.

Yang grinned. Reached for Blake’s scroll and snapped it open, inverting the camera and dragging Blake to the other side of the table. She threw an arm around the frozen corporal and chuckled into the camera.

“Say cheese, Win,” Yang said, “Thanks for the best birthday present ever,”

Blake’s smile had already melted into her perfect, Blake-like curl. After a stunned swallow, Winter broke, her crystalline eyes clearing. It wasn’t a smile in Yang’s sense of definition, but it worked. A tricky, bowed stability touched Winter’s lips; the ever-tense corners of her eyes relaxing.

Yang took the picture.

* * *

 

“Widow Tracer is down, I repeat, Widow Tracer is down,” Ironwood crackled through the Conn-Pod.

Blake didn’t know if that meant dead or malfunctioned, and Yang’s mind yanked her back to the present task. They couldn’t afford to consider the long-term effects, only the immediate.

They had agreed, LOCCENT and pilots altogether. Lena and Amelie would take on the first Grimm with Sun and Neptune, dispatching it quickly. Blake and Yang being the fastest, they’d do all they could to buy time until they could get some assistance.

LOCCENT named the first Grimm Lancewraith. It was larger than any Grimm they’d seen before, with four spindly, deadly quick arms. The second was quickly named Knifehead. Beside the first, it was larger still. Slightly slower but for good reason. It had thick arms and an enormous, jutting wedge sprouting from its head. It looked like a walking axe.

Blake and Yang had reacted at the same time, drawing out the massive sword folded into Ember Shroud’s build. This was only the second time they’d ever had to use it.

They’d been wrong when they called Knifehead slower. Yang had grit her teeth in agreement when Blake’s incredulous thought flashed through the Drift; it had only walked slowly. It had been a ruse. The Grimm truly were smarter.

It swung its head with scary accuracy, speed and skill in the wielding of its own anatomy apparent. They found themselves parrying, blocking, and stepping, mindful of its powerful arms’ reach. Its hands were capped in deadly claws.

They steamed on, attacking where they could when LOCCENT had given the read on Lena and Amelie. Blake instantly read the data, Yang keeping her eyes on Knifehead.

“Trident Sol, two hundred feet behind us and backing into our direction,”

“Got it,” Yang barked back.

Together, they kept eyes on the Grimm in front of them, on defense and wary. They drew parallel to the retreating Jaeger.

Blake slapped at the inter-Jaeger comms, “Sun! Neptune! Switch!”

“Got it!” they called.

In a ducking twist, the Jaegers flipped their positions, Blake and Yang trading Knifehead for Lancewraith. They barreled through the maneuver, but Ember Shroud didn’t slow, Blake and Yang launching forward and bringing the sword down in a sweep, aiming for the two left arms. The Grimm dodged, the two right wrapping around Ember Shroud with a shuddering jolt.

Their sword stuck into the reef, jointly making the decision to abandon it. In a flash, Blake led them into a Krav maga roll, dropping to the ocean floor and taking the Grimm with them. Yang grit, sweating.

They struggled, the ocean obscuring view in a churn of foam and flailing limbs. After solid seconds, they finally pinned two knees on the Grimm’s back, legs keeping the two right arms against the ground of the Pacific.

In tandem, they wrapped Ember Shrouds arms around the loose left arms, trapping them against their chest.

“One, two-,” Blake shouted.

“Now!” Yang completed.

Together, they forced a backwards lunge, the Grimm’s left arms snapping off. It struggled and screamed under them enough to dislodge their weight. They struggled to their feet, Ember Shroud rising out of the ocean to watch Lancewraith stagger upright, pitching and whirling with animal pain.

LOCCENT cracked into the Conn-Pod, Ironwood strained.

“Trident Sol is unresponsive, repeat, Trident Sol unresponsive. You are on your own Ember Shroud,”

They didn’t think about it.

“Behind us!” Blake cried, a sensor wailing.

They ducked, rolling forward. Knifehead’s vicious stab swept into the empty space behind them.

Yang caught sight of the still flailing Lancewraith, Blake agreeing immediately. They charged the Grimm, juked, and positioned behind it. In tandem, they grunted, arms contracting to hold it’s panicking form. Knifehead screamed at their back. Blake kept one eye on the sensor.

Yang sweated, the right arm locked around the Grimm’s body while the left contained its remaining arms.

“Blake?” she grit.

“Almost,” the brunette harshed, jaw grit. Her eyes went wide when the sensor flashed, “Now!”

They spun, throwing the Grimm in front of them like a shield, Knifehead impaling its fellow at the last split second. In the exact same instant, Yang screamed in a short burst, Blake feeling a lesser shock.

Knifehead had angled the giant axe of its face upwards, slicing into Lancewraith’s chest and clean into Ember Celica’s shoulder joint. The arm severed, falling into the sea. The circuitry suit had done its job too well.

Yang gasped, gritting her teeth and growling a cry of pain. The suit had short-circuited its feedback receptors, frying the wiring in an electrical surge directly connected to Yang’s nerves.

Her arm went numb, only the pain assuring her there wasn’t any permanent damage.

“Yang?” Blake’s voice came worried, her own hand tingling.

“I’m fine,” she called back, eyes leveling on the Grimm shaking its head to rid itself of the dead comrade. Yang bit her lip, “Charge the plasma gauntlet,” she yelled, an inkling of an idea not yet fully formed. Blake did it automatically.

Suddenly, it was their Kwoon fight all over again. The Grimm had range. Their sword was somewhere buried in the sea.

They needed to close the distance.

The gauntlet charged, and then it clicked.

Power from the nuclear reactor was still running through Ember Shroud’s missing arm. At the same instant as Yang thought it, Blake realized they could divert the residual power to the left arm’s remaining gauntlet for one last ultimate shot. The only way to do that was a manual override.

Which was embedded into the wall.

They shot each other looks, Blake panic-stricken, Yang with a tense, sad, smile.

“I love you, babe,”

“Yang, don’t you dare-!”

But the blonde had shot a punch at the ceiling’s emergency switch, uncoupling and darting to the wall in the next second. Blake glanced toward the front, grunting under the strain of losing a second set of legs. Their handshake held.

But Yang’s arm hadn’t recovered from the numbing shock of relayed pain. Blake could feel the residual tingling as everything below her shoulder crackled a second too slow to the commands directed to it. Yang grit her teeth at the wall, fumbling through the access panels to the override switch.

Blake’s heart stilled, Knifehead truly rounded on them now, shifted back and preparing to strike.

“Yang!” Blake cried, electric dread frying through the Drift. Yang groaned through her teeth, hands wrapped around the massive pull-switch and throwing her weight back.

The engines kicked.

Knifehead stepped forward, potential energy springing kinetic.

Yang saw it coming through Blake’s eyes. She sprang away from the wall, jerking backwards to see her right hand disobediently still gripping the handle. Her eyes widened, body anchored without the use of her hand.

She snapped her head back to see Blake strain under the force of attempting to lift the left arm by herself, anything to block.

Blake saw herself in Yang’s mind, the both of them knowing it was too late. The sweating brunette felt the apology flood into her, a river of love and acceptance.

“ _No_ -!”

And Knifehead struck.

Blake had managed to pivot backwards, the massive blade of its head glancing over the Conn Pod and folding the metal like paper mache. Yang was thrown to the back of the pod, the ceiling coming down on top of her. The glass front exploded, wiring and steel ripped apart. Half of the Conn Pod collapsed under Knifehead’s weight in an instant. Yang’s left side was visible. She didn’t move.

The monster reeled to the side, roaring in fury at its foil.

Blake didn’t think, just reacted. She had only managed to raise the left arm part of the way, but Knifehead’s broadside was exposed. The gauntlet shivered as it contained twice the amount of power it was meant to hold.

She fired the canon as an instinct.

She couldn’t feel Yang in the Drift.

She was alone.

She gasped, air syrup-thick and choking. Fear squeezed her heart in a vice-grip, ripped the organ her from her chest and crushed it under God knows how many tons.

“Yang!” she screamed, eyes wild and locked on the unmoving form of the love of her life, “ _Yang_!”

The name tore from her chest, scorched her throat, a spray of soul wrenched straight from her soft, crumbling, insides.

The Grimm wailed as Blake’s left hand nearly dissolved from the heat that coursed through it. The gauntlet blew itself apart on discharge, the levels of nuclear power tearing the weapon to pieces.

It had been a killing blow, but the Grimm’s shrieks of death were drowned out in the screams ripping from Blake’s throat. She wasn’t aware it was happening. All she saw was Yang lying motionless across the Conn Pod. And they were trapped in a Jaeger.

The last thing she had seen in Yang’s mind had been a picture.

Nausea roiled in her stomach in such a thunderous wave, she staggered.

She was trapped in a Jaeger, piloting alone.

The clutching, greedy hands of the Pacific called her to its depths.

She had to get Yang.

Had to get out.

She stepped.

Her back hurt. Legs on fire. White-hot pain beyond comprehension settled into her bones. She prayed that every beat of her heart could wash away the nerve endings, filter the agony.

 _Yang, please God_.

She stepped.

Blake’s legs hurt so badly they went cold.

Stepped.

_Yang._

Her senses screeched in stimulation, maximum capabilities reached and exceeded. There was a pressure against her right hand, irregular weight shifting her shoulder.

Step.

 _Yang_.

Blake looked down. Her arm had caught on something.

Step.

 _Yang_.

The end of a piece of rebar was jutting through the gaps of her body armor. Her right arm’s limp swing had hooked around it.

Step.

 _Yang_.

Blake blinked. Lost time. There was black, and then the searing white-blue of sky or sea or both. Blinked. Black. Lost more time. The floor was red.

Step.

 _Yang_.

The last picture.

Yang had let it wash through her senses in a millisecond, the image torn and sepia-toned with worn fondness. Like Yang had spun it through her memory so many times, it was tattered and dog earned. The oils of her mind had smeared the background, just the focal point remaining.

Blake was straddling her lap in bed, hands carding through her hair. Syrup-sweet kisses on her tongue. Raw, yet somehow burnt, American pancakes abandoned on the breakfast tray next to her. There was shredded wrapping paper beside an uncovered LEGO box, a custom-ordered toy replica of Yang’s beloved motorcycle on the front. Her girlfriend was warm against her, dressed in nothing but an apron, garter and stockings, and the fat black pearl Yang had bought her for their three-year anniversary.

Blake’s breathy murmur rang church bell echoes in her ears, _I love you too_.

‘25’ candles had been laid aside, her wish already come true.

Blake didn’t know if she was crying. It didn’t seem possible for one person to trap so much heat. It was incinerating. Scorching until there was nothing left.

And then there was Earth.

Somehow.

There was land.

She leaned backwards, eyes rolling in her head. Ember Shroud groaned, knees folding.

There was black.

Time.

And then white.

Blake gasped, mind reaching for the Drift as her eyes snapped open, retinas scorching against a ceiling too bright and antiseptic-sharp to be anything but a hospital. The Drift was cold. Gone. She breathed, shaking but whole.

She was reclined, paper-gowned and woozy.

Hospital room.

White walls, white chairs, isolated window drawn with shades. The electric beep of a monitor reminding her she was alive, and she found she didn’t care at all. Blake fumbled for the device she knew would be nearby. Her side twanged in a sharp pierce of white-hot pain, mind recalling the metal that had made itself at home.

She found the thick-corded box. Her heart started hammering as she pressed the large red button. It took seconds to get attention.

Yang would have laughed. Made a joke about VIPs.

A nurse entered, flanked by Ironwood and Winter Schnee.

Blake’s pounding heart arrested at the grim expressions on their faces. Winter’s image dissolved instantly, “She’s alive,” she rushed out, for once uncaring about the look Ironwood sent her, “Yang. She’s alive,”

Blake felt her head go light. The relief was overwhelming.

She took a breath. Took another. It was the first one to feel clean. Yang’s okay. Blake swallowed, pursed her lips and breathed deeply again. She looked back to Winter, the melt of reprieve dissipating in an instant. The corporal’s eyes were gaunt, sickly looking and unrested.

“What,” Blake’s throat screamed with dry disuse, eyes flicking between them both, “What else?”

The nurse worked on the other side of the bed, approached with a syringe in hand. Blake’s room spun, but she turned her head to the woman.

“Stop,” she snapped as the nurse reached for her hanging IV. The nurse froze. Blake looked back to the tight-eyed visitors, “Tell me,” her whisper came strangled.

“It’s Yang,” Winter swallowed. Ironwood shot the corporal another glance. This one, she heeded. Winter shut her mouth, her hand instead reaching for the inside of her jacket and removing familiar-looking documents.

“Ranger Xiao Long is in critical condition,” he powered, voice resounding and unapologetic, “Her skull, collarbone, ribs and right leg are broken in various places, but can be repaired. Her right arm, however, was without blood flow for a significant amount of time,”

There was a searing pain in her heart. It overpowered the agony pulsing in her hip. Ironwood’s clean, steel cut eyes didn’t blink above his moving mouth. Winter looked lost beside him, fingers reverent around paperwork bearing Blake’s own 12-hour dried signature.

“It was crushed,” he said, “Our surgeons can reconstruct the bones, but they say the nerve damage is permanent. She’ll never be able to use the lower three fourths of her arm again. The tissue had begun to die,”

Blake was underwater, over her head, one hand held up to halt the frightened nurse holding the morphine.

“Sooner, rather than later,” Ironwood ground out, “We should sever the limb and replace it with the best dust-light prosthetic ever engineered. We need your consent,”

Blake’s chest sucked. Her hearing seemed to be going in and out. The lights burned.

“You’re asking me,” she couldn’t remember how to breath, “If you can cut off her arm?” her voice cracked, words as broken as the shards of her spirit.

Ironwood didn’t flinch.

“Amputation is the only way,”

Blake felt her eyes well, but there was no sadness. Nor was there any in Ironwood’s. As Blake stared, the flint blue eyes went mellow. Dull. Uncaring. Blake didn’t look away, her breathing coming quicker, Yang’s gentle amethyst irises sparkling in her mind. In comparison, Ironwood’s own were grey. Ugly. A wash of apathy. Blake felt fire lick a stripe up her spine.

She shivered, teeth coming together as rage sparked between her shoulders. Her vision blurred, and she didn’t stop the catharsis she needed. Blake’s entire being shook with fury. She lunged up, grabbed Ironwood around the starched collar and _yanked_. She pulled him clean off balance, expression breaking in alarm as he caught himself against the bed.

Blake brought his face level to hers and _snarled_. Every drop of desperate wrath she felt amplified in the venom of her tones.

“If I _ever_ find out we could have saved her arm,” she near-screamed, tears hot on her cheeks, eyes a hellish promise, “I’ll fucking kill you,”

She breathed, tightening her hold and shaking him into a second startle, “I’ll fucking-,” she gasped, eyebrows pitching. The rage was slipping, “God-“ she inhaled in pitching grasps. The fight leaked out. She let the fabric slip from her fingers.

Buried her face in her hands and let the tears run.

“I’ll kill-“ she choked.

But it was too late. Her mind had caught up with her. Yang was lying somewhere, unconscious and broken.

Alone.

Her beautiful Yang. Whole and lovely, Yang.

Yang, who wrapped those sure, steady arms around her and lifted her onto countertops and tables for kisses. Yang, with such careful, capable fingers. Fingers able to make her laugh and cry, break her over and over again, only to bring her back to life.

Her charming Yang, confident in all things. Gentle and divine.

Blake’s soul lamented. Cried for her fallen angel of the sun.

She sobbed.

Distantly, feet shuffled.

“Ms. Belladonna, your stitches-“

The blood pooled hot in her lap.

Winter alone and white-faced.

At some point, mercifully, she passed out.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Now**

 

The helicopter blades slowed, the high mechanical whine softening decibel by decibel. The door to their Blackhawk opened, a crew chief signaling the passengers out and onto the flight line. Yang nodded at her sister, waving her forward.

Stepping down after her, Yang was greeted to the sight of a place she’d once considered home. It was a refuge, back then. She’d be lying if she said merely seeing the building, all cast iron haste and towering, steel bolted resilience, didn’t stir affection in her chest.

“I guess it hasn’t changed much, huh?” Ruby chuckled. Yang smiled, slinging an arm around her sister.

“You don’t change the Shatterdome,” she said, low and dramatic, “The Shatterdome changes you,”

Ruby snorted.

The sisters walked towards the open hanger. Yang stepped through the gigantic doors, wide enough for two airliners to sit in wing-to-wing, tall enough for a standing Jaeger. Ruby was grinning madly and ran forward just to take in the sight.

Jaegers.

Inside the Shatterdome’s hangar, the ceiling cathedraled to 40 stories high. The walls, though, were what drew the eye. Embedded into the design, large cut outs had been made to dock the Jaegers like some kind of colossal action figure. The Jaegers themselves stood 300 feet tall. At the Vladivostok Shatterdome, there were five. Yang would have bet there were more being built all over the world.

Ruby had jumped and sped along a self-guided, star-eyed tour of iron, oil, and raw power. Yang watched her go, looking at the crowds of personnel rushing around. Her eye caught a white robed figure staring at her expectantly. Yang rolled her shoulders and crossed to just inside the shadow of the hangar’s door.

“Nice welcoming party you’ve got here,” Yang started in, a roguish smile threatening.

“Ranger Xiao Long,” Winter bit. Yang eyed her, noting the unnatural stillness in the woman’s stance.

“You’re usually pretty uptight, but now you just look pained,” she cocked her head, “That pole up your ass shift around?”

Winter sighed through her nose, teeth gritting as she looked away. She checked her immediate surroundings for listeners. Yang’s eyebrows rose slightly.

“I- I’m calling in my favors. All of them. The ones you owe to me,” Winter cleared her throat, looking like she had swallowed vinegar.

“What?” Yang asked, still half-laughing and confused.

Winter’s brows furrowed.

“From… before,” she said, distinct and uncomfortable, “You owe me. You’ve said it before,”

Yang frowned. She glanced around and behind her. Clear. She shuffled a half-step forward for an inkling of self-made privacy. Yang had known the woman for many years, and only two times had she ever seen this expression on her face. Winter’s eyes were deep in honest, reluctant distress.

“You don’t need to do this,” Yang said, low and bothered, “Winter, if you need help…” she trailed off, an offer not meant to offend.

Winter didn’t fidget, but God did it look like she wanted to.

“I do. I’d like to ask you for help,” she said, “I mean to ask it with every sincerity. You’ll be joining the candidates. During training and otherwise,” Winter’s earnest tones mellowed, “One of them is my sister,”

Yang’s intrigue twisted in her gut. Her expression darkened as Winter repeated herself uncharacteristically.

“My younger sister by 4 years,” she said, low and purposeful, “I’m not asking you to watch over her,” her frowned, “Neither am I asking for you to be friends. Only. Weiss is a good person. She’s strong, but she’s young. She knows what’s right and won’t back down. In a way which, frankly, reminds me of you,”

The blonde’s spine uncurled. A smile flickered over her lips.

“You mean she’s a brat?”

Winter huffed a percent of a laugh, “Perhaps to some,” she said.

Yang eyed the affectionate expression. It looked good on Winter. The feeling in her gut warmed. From one older sister to another, she knew Winter was a good one.

“I didn’t know your sister had joined the PPDC,” Yang said, a question in and of itself. Winter’s gentle remembrance dipped severe.

“She didn’t,” she replied, flat and dangerous, “Weiss was… recruited. She’s a champion fencer,”

Her stilled sentences told Yang everything she needed to know. No one had told Winter that they were going to ask her younger sister. She hadn’t known, and when she found out, she’d be furious.

“Yeah," Yang’s voice was tight, “Sounds familiar,” it was bitter, but without blame. An offer Winter took. She nodded, harsh and compact. Her jaw tightened.

“Coincidentally, the Schnee Dust Corporation has since become the primary backer for six new Jaegers,”

Yang’s head reared, the disgust plain in Winter’s posture. The special agent pulled oxygen through her nose. Expelled in a burst. Yang got it. Either Ironwood had courted Jacques Schnee through Weiss, or Jacques Schnee had shipped off his last daughter for a PR campaign. Either option turned her stomach.

Winter focused on the blonde before her. Her eyes returned to that special, hardened type of hesitation, “I understand your reasonings for protecting your sister. I only… I want-“

Yang laid a mechanical hand on Winter’s pristinely-outfitted shoulder. She squeezed lightly. Amethyst eyes rang a cheerless understanding, “I get it. Don’t worry. I’ll keep an eye out,”

Winter’s expression flashed open and unprepared before the professional façade pulled ahead. She cleared her throat and nodded.

“Thank you. Yang,” she said. Yang’s hand fell from the woman’s shoulder. She dipped her head and turned to face the hangar.

“Any in-processing stuff I need?”

Winter shook her head, scroll already in hand and throwing out digital light.

“You have the rest of today free. Your room assignment, uniforms, and personal effects will be disseminated at reception after dinner. From there, you’ll get your schedule for the week ahead,”

“Any sneak peeks? You know I love a good surprise, but I wanna be ready if some girls kidnap me in my underwear and take me to a midnight initiation,”

Winter’s jaw flexed, “I’ve arranged for you to occupy the same room as your sister. I’ll act as handler to you both. Organized PT will not start until after this week. All cadets will have their physical the day after tomorrow,”

Yang clicked her tongue.

“Any way I could skip that last thing? Can’t they just use the spinal fluid from last time around?”

Winter’s eyes narrowed. Yang sighed.

“Worth a shot,” she smiled genuinely at Winter, “Thanks,” she nodded, “I’ll see you at reception then,”

“Do try to be on time,”

“And deprive everyone a grand, Xiao Long entrance? Not a chance,”

Yang winked, sauntering off. She chuckled to herself at the feeling of Winter’s annoyance on her back. She breathed deeply. Winter’s sister, eh? The thought curled uncomfortably in her stomach. It had always been the way that the Jaeger program got so personal so quickly. Pilots who were Drift compatible were often siblings or couples. If not at the time of their meeting, they eventually became them.

She found her own sister staring up at a half-built Jaeger.

“That’s not bad,” Yang whistled, hands on her hips as she looked up at it. Ruby noticed her and returned the attention. Yang grinned, “What do you think? Wanna take her for a spin?”

Ruby chuckled.

“So bad,” she sighed wistfully, “I doubt my insurance would cover it,”

Yang laughed. She led the way further into the hangar, a few technicians pausing and waving when her face’s familiarity registered. She nodded back.

Ruby was talking quickly, gesticulating to emphasize the important points of her electromyography articles. Yang was humming, entertaining the feverish gibbering. She looked up and felt a bolt run through her.

“Pyrrha?”

Ruby looked to her sister, Yang’s face a shocked mask of disbelief. Her mouth hung slightly. Then, a flash of joy eclipsed.

“Pyrrha!” Yang half-jogged to a redheaded woman who wore an answering smile. They embraced tightly. The women separated long moments later, hands lingering on forearms.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” Yang breathed. Her smile suddenly dimmed, faltering entirely as she looked into Pyrrha’s viridian gaze.

“I can’t believe any of us are,” Pyrrha said softly, an echoing kind of sadness in her eyes. She laid a hand over her heart, “But it’s where Jaune would be. What he would have done,”

Yang grimaced. Nodded. She tipped her head and dipped into a smile.

“Don’t tell me you’re a trainer,” she said.

Pyrrha snapped out of some kind of fugue, and smiled briskly. She snapped a jaunty mockery of a salute.

“At your service, Ranger Xiao Long,”

Yang laughed, big and heavy, her hands on her hips. She rolled her eyes, “They’re throwing me in with the cadets, actually,”

Pyrrha’s ginger brows rose, “You’re piloting?”

Yang nodded, “Try and keep me away,”

Pyrrha’s entire body lifted in her exuberance, “Oh! This is wonderful! I’m so happy to know you’ll be out there,” her grin was pure and warm. She looked past Yang on either side, “Is Blake coming in later?

A hesitation of a second caught Pyrrha’s attention, Yang opening her mouth just in time to be cut off.

“Brat! I knew I saw an Amazonian bimbo in my hangar,”

Yang’s head swiveled, her mouth split in joy, eyes burning.

“You’ve got to be kidding,”

To Ruby, an old woman with a walking cane waddled up. She was either slightly overweight or simply wore enough coats to give the effect. Dark, sandalwood skin and grey-white hair braided down her back. More noticeable though were her eyes. They were covered by the most advanced-looking piece of technology Ruby had ever seen. Dust-light, obviously. They whirled every so often, adjusting.

“Maria Calavera,” Yang’s lips dripped into a cocky, satisfied smile, “I can’t believe you’re still alive. I didn’t know Schnee had the kind of money to bribe God,”

“If it weren’t for the shit you and your little girlfriend put my heart through, I’d have at least another 20 years,” the old woman grouched, wrinkled mouth pulled taunt in a large smile, “Where is the RABIT huntress anyway? I’ve got a bone to pick. That tin can she messed around in is locked on at least four cybernetic levels,”

Yang’s smile faltered. Pyrrha tipped her head curiously.

“Blake’s… still retired,”

Maria blinked, Pyrrha’s hand instinctively going to her mouth. Ruby shifted self-consciously. The old woman grimaced.

“What _is_ ‘ol Ironwood up to?” she grumbled. Yang looked away, pushing down the empty cavern of her chest.

“So, who do we have here?” Yang walked forward, “I see we’ve got some new kids on the block,”

Maria shook herself, eyes blinking and spinning. She smiled something sinister and manic in the corners.

“I’m so glad you asked,” she spun with surprising agility for an elderly woman. She pointed to a hulking, barrel-chested Jaeger set into one of the walls. As she spoke, sparks fell down from welders crawling over it like swarming ants.

“This is Menagerie Fang,” she crowed with all the enthusiasm of a three-ring circus Master, “Mark-4, one of the three we’ve got. The other two are Gatling Flash, and Crimson Bandit,” Maria’s dust-light eyes spun as her voice picked up, always happy to show off her work, “We’re obviously got Ember Shroud, but that hunk of junk is the last of the Mark-3’s. We’re moving in on the Mark-5,”

She pointed to a crowded, half-constructed Jaeger, “Over there is Storm Hammer,” Maria twirled her cane, “That’ll eventually be Triad Brawler,”

“And this,” Maria crowed with relish as she turned to the side, “This is the only Mark-V we’ve built completely so far. Naster Crescent. We think it’ll be the fastest Jaeger ever made,”

Yang looked over and felt like smiling at the wide, doe-eyed yearning in her sister’s face as she gazed at the skyscraping sprinter. Try as she might, Yang couldn’t quite manage the expression.

* * *

 

Reception in the Shatterdome was the same. Ironwood droned. The food sucked. It was cold. Yang was late.

As she entered, it wasn’t even thought of. Her eyes immediately drew to a pillar. An empty pillar. Yang swallowed. And suddenly she felt hollow again. Like all the mass inside her chest necessary for sustaining life and feeling had been scooped out; her bones replaced with fired clay.

She hadn’t been able to eat for a few days, which most likely didn’t help. But the thought of anything substantial twisted her gut. She grit her teeth and pushed forward. Tried to push away the clawing, scraping echoes of her body out of synch with itself.

Thankfully it was Week Zero, and she had to focus on only pushing herself to her body’s breaking points. The punishment felt good.

Even more validating was glimpsing pieces of Ruby through the obstacle courses and evaluations. She was the picture of concentration, drive and motivation seeping from her pores alongside the rivers of sweat. Yang breathed, a gusty, echoing feeling through her cratered chest.

But it helped. She could do this with Ruby.

* * *

 

“Have you heard?”

“What?”

“Yang Xiao Long is back. She’s here. In the Shatterdome,”

Ruby slowed, her shirt halfway over her head in front of her locker. It was either behind her or a row away. The voices belonged to a few women she’d seen in the gym earlier.

“What? Here? She’s coming out of retirement? They’re bringing Ember Shroud out?”

“Fuck, okay get this. Xiao Long’s here. Without Belladonna,”

The air itself held a breath.

“ _Fuck_. Are you serious?

“Dead,”

“How?”

“Did they break up?” A third voice apparently recovered from shock and shouldered into the discussion, thirst in every syllable.

“That can’t be possible,”

“All I know is that she’s here, and Belladonna’s not,”

The shrug was audible, another curse rising in soft disbelief.

“So that means she’s… on the market then?”

“Fuck, Neon, she’ll destroy you,”

“I’m just saying,” the third voice defended, “Why not? Drift Compatibility’s weird,”

“Well there’s a rumor they’ve got a ringer for her,”

“Oh my god, can you imagine if it’s that Schnee girl?”

The group broke up into laughter.

Ruby clenched her fists over her shirt.

* * *

 

Yang held her lunch stray stead as she craned over the mess for her sister’s short stature. Just her luck, because Ruby was currently flushed in the cheeks and standing next to a girl she’d never met before. And staring up indignantly at a pair of identically bristling faces.

Her tray landed next to them all with a disruptive clatter just in time for her to catch her own name in the guy’s mouth, hollowed and rolled into derision.

“I suppose you’re going to call on some big, bad enforcer to do your dirty work then?” one of them said, snide and looking at Yang’s arrival, “Just like a Schnee,”

Yang immediately felt her blood crackle. She’d felt nothing for days. Anger was familiar. Comforting, even. She glanced to the girl next to Ruby to confirm. Hair so blonde it was white, chipped glaciers for eyes, delicate, doll-like features and entitlement radiating from the pole inset into her perfect posture.

If this wasn’t Weiss Schnee, Yang would kiss James Ironwood on the mouth.

“How dare you!” the girl’s voice shrilled, “How dare you speak to me, let alone anyone this way!”

“Speak to me’?” the other twin jeered, brown eyes flicking over her. He was English, his features indistinguishable from his brother in every way but for the style of their hair, “Why wouldn’t we speak to you any way we like? You, and the rest of you,” he turned to Yang and Ruby with dislike.

Yang’s lip curled, “Sounds like you know us. Care to share just who the hell you think you are?”

The brother with dark spiked hair growled, “Fennec Albain,” he said, nodding with a jerk to the slicked hair of his partner, “My brother, Corsac,”

“Great. Do we have a problem here?” Yang snapped, stance adjusting. The twins both turned to face her head-on, looking relived for the opportunity to vent their thoughts.

“Yeah, we do,” Corsac scorned, “We don’t know why you’re here, and we think it’d be better if you did the right thing and took yourself out of consideration,”

“Excuse me?” Yang was nearly shrill.

“You failed,” Fennec sneered. Corsac folded his arms, “You barely took down a Grimm five years ago and now you’re half the Ranger you once were,” his smirk was cruel and cold, “Literally,”

“We don’t need has-beens, nepotism, or _money_ weighing us down,” Corsac said, “So stay out of our way,” he shot a dirty look to Weiss.

“Don’t you worry about us,” Yang grit, revealing her teeth a dark, dangerous peel of a smile, “See you in the Kwoon room, though,”

The pair sniffed.

“Looking forward to it,”

With that, they turned and continued on their way out. Ruby watched them go, stricken at the comments to her sister. Weiss fumed next to her. Yang snorted a cooling breath.

“Well those guys fucking suck,” Yang bit, her eyes following the twins’ retreat.

“I thought England was supposed to be a _nice_ place,” Ruby said, slightly miserable, “Manners and passive aggression,”

Yang breathed through her laugh, jaw jumping, “Don’t think about them. We’re here to get a job done,” she gave one last glare to the brothers’ backs before looking to the slight girl, “You good, Schnee? Not gonna try to kill them in their sleep, right?”

Yang nearly laughed at the too-familiar ice blue eyes turned to glare at her, reproachful.

“No. I can take care of myself,” she snipped, crossing her arms. It was too rich. She was Winter in miniature. Yang didn’t care about shielding the heiress from her smile.

“Really?” She drolled out playfully, “What about _paying_ someone to murder them? That seems more up your alley. Oh, how about just straight up buying them off?”

Weiss gaped at her momentarily before Ruby exploded in laughter. Weiss looked to her, slightly unsure. Her aggression folded. Yang was surprised at the reflex. As far as she knew, Weiss and Ruby hadn’t ever spoken before.

“Oh ha, ha,” Weiss grumbled, looking away.

Yang laughed, looking between her own sister and Winter’s. Shook her head. The Special Agent would absolutely kill her if Weiss were Drift Compatible with her sister. But she did say keep her close.

The blonde hummed, raven hair flashing through her mind’s eyes. She cleared her throat.

“Hey, I’ll catch up with you later, Rubes. Why don’t you eat with Weiss today?”

* * *

 

“Three-Zero,” Winter said, “Reset,”

“Damn it!”

Ruby’s fist throbbed from where it struck the padded floor. She knew what she would see if she looked anywhere but the mat. Yang’s expression had stayed hard and unreadable, marbleized stress in the corners of her mouth since the first step. Ruby panted, watching sweat drip from her temple to the floor. Her breathing was too ragged, her legs on fire, her arms starting to leaden.

“Come on,”

Yang’s voice was hollow. Lavender stared out at nothing in particular. Looking up, Ruby saw her sister’s eyebrows pitch inward, an autonomic response to some private swim of memory. Another moment, and Yang blinked, settling back into an iron grip of determination. She extended a hand to her sister’s prone form.

“Come on, Ruby. Let’s go again,”

Shame swallowed her heart. Yang’s words pricked at her, digging small and concentrated centers of pain into her skin. She looked to Winter, who held only her usual mask of career apathy. On either side of her though, the clip board-holders were tittering, scribbling and comparing notes.

“Don’t focus on them,” Yang said, stepping in her eye line, “Look at me,” she handed Ruby the bo staff back, “Remember that it’s not a fight. Think of it as a dance,” she urged, not an ounce of sweat on her. Ruby nodded, getting her breath back.

Subconsciously, she instinctively searched the gym for a glimpse of white-blonde hair.

* * *

 

Ruby let the screen’s glow paint across her face, a dye of digital memory. This one was her favorite. She found the right file and hit play.

The screen opened up to the jazzy live band of a Late Show’s intro. The host sat behind a desk, bleached white smile broad and showy.

“Hey! And welcome back. I’m Flynt Coal and tonight we have a _smashing_ duo of ladies. To protect and serve, ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Jaeger pilots and partners, Yang Xiao Long and Blake Belladonna!” A grand sweep of his arm, a cymbal-crash, a camera pan, and the appearance of both women. Ruby smiled at their entrance.

Yang’s hair had only been past shoulder-length back then, Blake’s bangs a little more severe. Yang wore a fitted orange suit with her personal touches of haste; rolled sleeves to the elbow, buttons undone, undershirt collar popped. Blake was an elegant counterpoint next to her, all graceful lines and stiletto curves in a little black dress. Later, she told Ruby they had almost missed their cue because the stage stylist had hesitated to give her the bright orange heels she requested.

They made their way across the stage to the long couch next to Flynt’s desk. Ruby’s smile was as fuzzy as the screen’s resolution, Yang waving to the audience with both hands before she sat, Blake already there and smoothing her dress. Yang threw a wink, pointing to a few people in the unseen crowd. Finally settling, the whistles and cheers died down.

“So lovely to have you both,” Flynt started in, straightening his infamous fedora, “I gotta tell you, it’s not often we have a power couple on the show,”

Blake looked charmed, Yang grinning and leaning her left arm to rest on the sofa behind Blake.

“ God, I hope that was a pun,” she said, all bright eyes and curled lips. Their host laughed his ‘of course’.

“So honestly, just out of my own curiosity, how is it that you’re allowed on the show tonight?” Flynt set his cards aside, “Are you here to endorse the PPDC?”

Yang laughed, waving a hand, “No, not at all. I’d never do something so patriotic,”

“The PPDC actually has a really strict PR department,” Blake said, crossing her legs, “And they absolutely hate Yang,”

The audience laughed as Yang grinned, winking. Flynt smiled.

“That has to be true,” he said, “Because Yang, I feel like I see you on the internet all the time. In fact, I have a clip of you taken by a fan of yours, have you seen this? Let’s take a look,”

Flynt pointed to the camera, Yang and Blake looking to wherever the clip was playing. To the show viewers, it dominated the screen.

Yang and Blake had been caught by a gathering of fans which quickly turned into an impromptu signing. An unsteady camera recorded Yang, Blake behind her with a mob of her own. Yang was Sharpie-ing her name on someone’s hat. She handed it back with a wink. She moved down, listening to someone else and replying. She shot them dual finger guns and held still while a camera flashed. Yang sidled along until she was directly in front of the filmer’s camera.

“Yang! Yang, I love you so much, do you think you could sign this?” it was a female voice, high and excited at the prospect of meeting 5 feet 10 inches of blonde brawler. They held out a piece of cardstock, Yang’s eyes going wide.

“Holy fuck,” Yang grabbed at a photo, “Where’d you get this?”

“I drew it,” the camerawoman rushed out.

Yang gaped, aviators on top of her head.

“No fucking way,” she cheered, “This is amazing! This is an amazing idea,” her lilac eyes dazzled before turning sly, “I’m stealing it. It’s mine now,” she signed the photo before turning around, watched Blake take a picture with someone, and then wrinkled her nose.

“God, look at her,” Yang sighed dramatically at the recorder, “Isn’t she so fucking hot? She’s such a lady,”

The screen cut black, the show returning. Blake was gently rotating her ankle, smiling fully, Yang looking accomplished. Flynt laughed.

“Here is the photo you signed,” he said. A realistic digital brushwork print appeared. In it, Yang and Blake were embracing while standing in the palm of Ember Shroud’s hand, “And this is the photo you posted to your Twitter a couple days later,” the image was replaced by a selfie of Blake, head against Yang’s, sitting at a picnic on Ember Shroud’s shoulder.

“Yep,” Yang said, smiling, “I got sent to my room for that one, for sure. Our commander’s kind of a… basket case,”

Flynt laughed heavily, groaning. Blake just kept smiling, glancing at Yang smoothly.

“Puns aside,” Flynt settled, “You two just trended as hashtag RelationshipGoals, did you know that?”

Blake nodded, “We did,”

“Did you celebrate?”

“No,” Blake smiled, “But it was very flattering,”

“I guess you got used to being in the public eye, then?” Flynt pressed, “Jaeger pilot extraordinaire, hero, and girlfriend of Yang Xiao Long,”

“I don’t know about the first two, but the third definitely took adjustment,” Blake nodded, “And regular deposits to my bank account,”

Yang threw her head back in laughter before straightening and shrugging.

“I figured it was easier. I can’t take her for normal dates, so I just give her the money,”

Flynt chuckled.

“After, what, 3 years? I bet you two have a bit saved up then. Anything special on the horizon?”

Blake exchanged a look with Yang, the insinuation strong. Only Ruby would know that it was also unwanted. People had been needling them to get married for years.

“Something special is in the works, actually. For our 4 year anniversary,” Blake slid, pausing dramatically, “We’re planning on getting a joint library card,”

Yang smiled and nodded, “I can’t wait to tell the world that I get to check her out,”

The audience and Flynt laughed. Yang moved her un-slung right arm toward Blake, uncurling her hand. Ruby smiled as Blake didn’t even glance at Yang, simply extended her right hand to lace her fingers through Yang’s, settling their hands in Yang’s lap. They hadn’t even spoken. Yang was smiling, the brunette at her side serene and unruffled.

“You guys are just the best couple,” Flynt said, clapping his cards on his desk, “Do you ever fight?” Yang looked to Blake, both exchanging amused expressions before Flynt refined his question, “Okay, how about what the last thing you disagreed on was?”

Blake smiled, slow and satisfied. She sent Yang an expectant look, who only roller her eyes and grinned.

“Okay, first of all, I’m not wrong here,” Yang started.

Flynt smiled excitedly.

“So, I do everything in my power to trick Blake into going to bed first so that she warms up the sheets and-“

“Hold on, you _what_?”

Yang let the crowd laugh at her, Blake nodding gently in thanks as the story progressed.

“We’re stationed in Anchorage. Its nickname is the Icebox. It’s cold, alright? So I try to get her to defrost the bed,” Blake drops Yang’s hand to let her wave, animated, as she speaks, “Well, last night, Blake goes to bed like usual, and then I get in and it’s _freezing_. Like, tundra cold,” Yang’s smile is wide enough to shatter as she looks to Blake with blazing love in her eyes, “Because Blake brought freaking _sleeping bag_ in bed, got in it, zipped it shut, and only warmed that,”

Flynt howled with laughter, the audience echoing. It took a long while for the place to calm down, Blake leaning forward to place a sweet, wedded kiss to Yang’s cheek.

Flynt finally gathered himself and nodded, “So, now we’re going to play a game that we like on this show-

_Clang, screeeeeech_

“Ah!” Ruby jumped, turning in alarm at the sound of her door. She snapped the screen closed, laying on top of it with one elbow and smiling too broadly.

Yang laughed shortly, entering and unwinding the boxing tape from around her left hand. She shot her sister a lifted eyebrow as she crossed to her closet.

“You do know that we didn’t break up,” Yang said dryly, “You don’t have to emotionally binge watch nostalgic videos of us. You can probably just call her,”

Ruby felt her ears redden, “I know,” she swallowed, “It’s just… nice,”

Yang’s eyes slid curious, turning back. Ruby’s eyebrows pinched.

“It’s like, the good ol’ days, you know?” she played with the table’s edge, “Have _you_ called her?”

Yang focused on freeing her wrist, the ruined tape spooling out like unsaid words.

“We didn’t break up,” she repeated, “That’s not going to happen. No matter what people say around here,” Yang sent her a flat, knowing, look, one eyebrow raised. Ruby bit her lip.

“So you heard?”

Yang scoffed, “Yeah, I heard,” she gave a weak smile, “I do still have friends around here,”

Ruby teased her lip between her teeth.

“Yang… you didn’t come here for me, right?”

Yang turned around fully and crossed her arms, gentle confusion in her eyes. Ruby sighed.

“I just can’t help but feel like maybe you came back… for me? Winter told me Ironwood wasn’t holding my position hostage but. It does seem like a good way to get you to separate from Blake,” Ruby twitched, “The only way, actually,”

Yang’s jaw twitched, her features going hard. She pulled breath through her nose. She glanced around the room before settling on her words.

“Two things, okay? First, you earned your spot at this Academy. You absolutely destroyed the competition. You earned your right to be here,” Yang’s lavender eyes were deep and persuasive, “Second, Winter Schnee would never lie to you. There are a lot of people here that’ll try to play head games with you, Rubes. But Winter you should trust,”

She breathed, head tipping up.

“That said, yeah. The idea that Ironwood could eventually do that came up. It was the first thing I asked. But I’m here because I have to be, sis. I can’t be anywhere else knowing what’s going to happen,”

Ruby nodded. She nodded because she understood. She’s never been in a Jaeger. But she knows her sister. Yang has been a protector all her life. It wasn’t in her to sit on the sidelines and brace for impact.

“And Blake?” Ruby asked, “What about Blake?” And suddenly, she felt like she was five years younger, looking into Corporal Winter Schnee’s red-rimmed, purple-shadowed eyes. Hospital disinfectant in her nose; sadness and a sliver of wilted hope in her chest.

Yang looked down to her robotic arm. Flexed her hand. Turned it over and watched it uncurl.

“Blake gets it,”

* * *

 

“Amazon!”

It’s shouted as Yang’s walking an iron gangway. She immediately turns, knowing Maria’s knees were bad. If she were up here, it meant she wanted Yang’s attention. When she got it, she growled about the inefficiency of the new scrolls inside the Shatterdome and led Yang through a familiar route.

The entire place was familiar. And yet, Yang could swear she was experiencing it for the first time. Like she were walking through somewhere she’d built herself, but someone else had painted everything a different color. Grayer. Duller.

They get to the door to the Con-Pod, and it feels strangely disconnected from those far five years ago. It’s just the same in structure. Same dimensions, features, dips and bulges of machinery. Yang’s eyes are wide as she steps in. She’d seen pictures of the wreckage.

“This is nice work, granny,”

Maria huffs but lets her explore.

“That’s why you’re here,” she says, “We need a confirmation that everything’s in order. Can’t exactly take these out for a test run,”

Yang reached out, her fingers brushing a distended panel near the front. Maria leaned against a wall, hands folded over top of her cane.

“We’re not sure what that is, either,” she sighed, “She’s a pain in the ass, that huntress of yours, even after all these years,”

Yang’s lips flickered, “You have no idea,”

She looked to Maria, back down, and let herself feel around the raised portion of the smooth wall. Her fingers came across an odd bolt, and she pushed it hard. In response, the panel popped open. Maria straightened, cybernetic eyes wide.

“How did you do that?”

Yang smiled.

“Just lucky, I guess,” she lifted the lid up and off, revealing a screen and spaces for two some things to be inserted. Maria wandered up, chin in hand.

“The first one is probably for a data cartridge of whatever kind,” she murmured, “But I’ve no clue what the hell that one is,” she pointed to the circle negative, “This must be where she locked the admin ability to make changes to Ember Shroud’s interface, that cheeky little girl,”

Yang laughed, “That’s Blake,” her chuckle was a glitter, where Maria knew it should have been a full flame. She sent a curious look over the young woman. Jaeger pilots. Who understood them?

“Hm, well. How do we override?”

“You don’t,” Yang smiled, head tipping back and sighing deeply, “Blake wanted to make sure no one screwed with our PONS. LOCCENT had an annoying habit of eavesdropping or terminating our bridge whenever they felt like it,” she met Maria’s eyes, smirking, “Plus, I’d just gotten the lumbar support right where I wanted it,”

Maria scoffed in disgust, her eyes shuttering and rolling around in their frames.

“Perfect,” she griped, “Just when I didn’t have enough to do, now I have to solve Ranger Blake Belladonna’s little codified puzzle of love!”

Yang smiled, looking back down to the panel. She traced an index finger over the circular keyhole. She curled a fist, pulling back and turning.

“You did a great job in here,” she said, “She looks just like new,”

Maria hacked another sound of discontent, “You think we’d just build another Ember Shroud without updates? Your time in retirement has really dulled your edge, Brat,”

The blonde’s teeth unveiled in a flash, a fizzing glee washing through her chest.

“Better retired than tinkering broken toys back together,” she smirked.

Maria gave a great glare over her shoulder, “You had better not break my toys again,”

Yang’s smile curved genuine.

“I’ll do my best,”

* * *

 

Yang’s chest hurt. Like she’d swallowed a portion of steak that had been meant for three separate bites. Like her lungs were jostling her heart into a new position. She frowned, massaging at her sternum with a fist.

“You okay?” Ruby asked, a hair tie in her teeth.

Yang shook off the odd feeling and nodded.

“You ready to get your ass kicked again?”

Ruby sighed, returning to the mirror she was looking in, “You do know I’ve won some of the fights, right?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Yang waved, stretching her left shoulder over her head, “I just want to get a crack at the other subject of her majesty’s douchiest court. I got to put Corsac on his ass and I can’t get enough,”

“You ask Winter to request it?

Yang pouted, “She said no,”

Ruby laughed, “Serves you right for _trying_ to beat him up,”

“Mm. Speaking of hitting things up,” Yang’s grin turned wolfish, “When are you going to ask Winter to schedule a round with her sister?”

Ruby didn’t miss the double entendre Yang’s eyebrows bounced. She couldn’t help it, she flushed.

Yang laughed all the way to the Kwoon room.

They stood in a loose semi-circle around Ozpin as they candidates warmed up. He gave his usual speech, washing tired and wasted past their ears on Day 6 of the Kwoon battles. It ended, but he didn’t stop talking.

“Today, we have a demonstration,” he announced, everyone in attendance looking up in confusion. Yang frowned as he continued, “As you know, a demonstration as to the looks of a compatible Kwoon spar was… unavailable,” Yang’s jaw jumped. She was grateful to the few heads who didn’t turn to look at her. Of any available demonstrators, she was one of four left alive. No one counted Pyrrha. She wished they would.

Ozpin cleared his throat, “Now, if you please, Ranger Xiao Long?”

The group parted around her, Yang frowning with confusion. Until she looked past them all. Past Ozpin, past the bo staff rack, past her fear and guilt.

And saw Circe leaning against a column.

“Blake?” Yang breathed.

The brunette figure didn’t smile with her teeth. It was all in her eyes. In her honey and sunshine eyes. Her heart thudded.

“Blake!”

Yang was upon the woman before she realized she had run. Blake’s ribs fit so naturally in Yang’s hands, lifting her as soon as she could touch her. Joy electrocuted the synapses of her nervous system. She lifted, laughed, couldn’t tear her eyes aware from the sparkling affection in her girlfriend’s perfect features. Yang spun her once, immediately finding the space between them unsatisfactory. Yang lowered her, bodies pressed together.

Blake immediately filled into the crook of Yang’s neck, the bridge of her nose pressed to skin. Yang felt her inhale. She did the same and understood why. It finally felt like the air was clean here. Yang’s hug was tight and getting tighter. Blake smiled into the clear-cut jawline. Yang buried her forehead into that lean, muscular shoulder, thanking every God she could think of that Blake’s hair was tied up.

Blake had maneuvered to stroke at the baby hairs of Yang’s nape, scratching lightly and rubbing her thumb over the soft skin. And Yang realized that she had been tired for a long, long time, and it was at last time to rest. There wasn’t a single doubt, Blake was holding Yang up.

“You promised me, Yang Xiao Long,” she said quietly, those low, sweet and striking tones, “But I made you a promise, too. I promise I will _always_ be here for you. And you for me,” she pulled away, a weak smile playing at her lips, “Besides, this isn’t a world I want if you aren’t in it,”

Yang, her heart tumbling out of her chest, smiled. Her eyes watered, eyebrows pitching as she bit her bottom lip to keep from laughing. Crying. Blake smoothed a thumb over her bottom lip, eyes twinkling.

“Besides,” she glittered slyly, “I think the best sex we ever had was after our first Drift,”

Yang barked out a laugh, watery and overwhelmed. Blake knew her too well; she’d always taken refuge in humor.

“I thought our five year was pretty good,”

Blake tipped her head, reminiscing with an impressed sort of look. She conceded, nodding lazily and smirking, “Good point,” she smiled prettily, “That time you broke the headboard?”

Yang cleared her throat, suddenly remembering where she was. Felt a little warm under the thin tank top. She looked down, noticing for the first time what Blake was wearing. The yoga-esque pants and tank top of the Kwoon battles. When she looked up, Blake was smiling, gentle and peaceful. She breathed.

“May I have this dance?”

Yang grinned, awed and loved.

* * *

 

Blake slipped her fingers through Yang’s, the blonde unsurprised at her appearance.

“I miss them,” Blake said.

Even her whisper echoed into the tall atrium, as lost as the souls on the wall. Yang had found it after one of her long, exploratory walks around Vladivostok. Off of the hangar was what probably used to be a storage room, repurposed. The technicians had cut out the iron of the wall and inlaid real stone. Taken pains to engrave and paint over the lettering on each one.

“Me too,” Yang hoarsed. She reached out, feeling the grooves, “Miltia. Melanie. Ciel and Penny. Sun and Neptune,” she swallowed, “Lena. Amelie. Jaune,”

Blake rolled a thumb over Yang’s knuckles.

“I called Oscar after you left,” she said, quiet and unrushed, “Told him what was happening. He said Ozma wanted him safe. They’ve both got kids now,”

“Pyrrha said the same thing,” Yang said, placid, “But that Jaune would have been the first one in line for the spinal tap,”

Blake huffed a laugh, “I think that’s true,”

Yang managed a smile, “Isn’t it funny that the first things we all thought of was what our partners wanted?”

“Hm,” Blake smiled, “Is that what you thought? When Winter asked?”

Yang actually smirked, “I think I told her, ‘Blake’ll never go for it’. Which was me censoring in the first place,”

Blake chuckled. Sighed, leaning more fully into Yang. The blonde squeezed her hand gently.

“I see Pyrrha, and I’m almost glad they died together,” Blake whispered into the reverent quiet, eyes trained on the ghostly rock, “How it felt when you were unconscious… and you were alive,” she swallowed, “It seems like mercy to go out as a pair,”

Yang grit her jaw.

“We’re not going out, babe. Not on our own, not as a pair, not at all,”

Blake’s head landed on her shoulder, Yang’s hand slipping to wrap around Blake’s waist and holding her in place. Blake relaxed.

“I’ve spent eight years with you, champ,” she crooned, “I’m not dying now,”

Yang’s heart melted. She smirked, “This is exactly the kind of moment Lena would have loved to ruin,”

Blake laughed, quiet and controlled, “Hypocrite. We all saw her and Amelie on their weird little dates in Widow Tracer’s Con Pod. I’ve never seen Amelie so happy as when she fed Lena those tiny pieces of chocolate. Freaks,”

Yang chortled, the cold of the atrium not nearly so chilly with Blake’s heat at her side.

* * *

  

“Sustrai, Fall!”

Ruby leaned over her knees, catching her breath. She had thought Week Zero was hard. Apparently, Ozpin wanted to do it again now that they were partnered up after the Kwoon rounds. Yang had nearly flipped a table, yelling about ‘nerd shit’ and storming off. Blake simply smiled after her legal wife.

 _Wife._ Ruby was still glowing about it.

Weiss had been the ones to spill the beans. She’d stared at Ruby like she were an idiot. Winter had told her years ago. She had assumed Ruby knew. Confronted, Ruby’s sister had tipped her head like she were recalling if she’d left the stove on before leaving New Sydney.

“Oh yeah, I guess so,” she hummed. Blake rolled her eyes and had explained more succinctly, ever the more socially graceful of the two.

Ruby had sputtered, “Wha- I- You- You guys are _married_?” Ruby gaped, mouth and eyes matching saucers, “This whole time?”

Yang snorted, “Don’t act so surprised. This girl can rap the entirety of Look at Me Now. Of course I married her,”

Ruby had sagged against Weiss dramatically, thwarted and horrified she’d been robbed of years of sentiment and spectacle. Inside, she jumped with joy. Weiss had poked her that night and accused her of being pleased. Her only answer had, strangely, been to explain that yes, she was thrilled. But ultimately, nothing felt different. Weiss waited, surprisingly patient, for her to explain.

“It doesn’t really matter what they’re called, I think,” Ruby searched, cross-legged on Weiss’ perfectly made bed, “Married, dating, friends, partners, whatever,” she had shrugged, “Just as long as they’re together, I don’t think they care about the rest,”

A whistle blast interrupted her memory.

“Adel, Scarlatina!”

Next to her, Weiss stood with her hands on her head, inhaling in wild stabs at controlled breathing after their turn at the 400m time trial. A whistle blew.

“Xiao Long, Belladonna!”

Ruby looked up, a motion mirrored by many of the cadets. Junior nudged his brother, Hazel tapping Tukson. Even the Albain twins turned. All eyes were on the legendary Jaeger pair.

Blake and Yang stepped up to the starting line. Blake tossed a comment to her; Yang’s smile a flit before she replied. A short blast, and they toed the line, bodies tense and low. Two blasts, and they took off. Ruby’s already open mouth dropped further. Weiss let out a soft ‘oh my’.

Yang ran like a jaguar chasing prey; hungry and powerful. It was in the tuck of her elbows; the hitch in her stride. She was compressed muscle and balled might, coiling and uncoiling in brutal precision through time and space.

Next to her, Blake was the fawn fleeing her predator. She dashed; loped; darted across the track. Blake was sleek strength, practiced and flourished. She kept her hands open and low, fluid movement pushed forward by steely kinetic determination.

They were inherent opposites, polar fields apart.

And in complete synchronization.

Because when Blake and Yang stepped forward to run, they stepped with their left foot. Together. Every stride was in perfect harmony, the same distance spanned with every step. It was eerie. And beautiful.

Faintly, Ruby remembered she had once listened to a violin duet play the same melody. Even then, she’d been able to discern the two different instruments. Now, watching Blake and Yang run, she knew she was looking at perfection. She was in awe of her sister; her sister in law. She wasn’t the only one.

“I’ve never seen Jaeger pilots,” Weiss murmured next to her, “Is this what Drift does?”

Ruby shook her head minutely.

“I don’t know,”

* * *

 

The circuitry suit was a second skin. The battle armor something familiar. Something comfortable. Blake kept looking at Yang, lip permanently worked in between her teeth as she fussed with her hair.

“Blake,”

She looked up. Yang smirked, suited up and allowing a spark to surface. She held her own hair in one hand, helmet in the other. Blake stared for a split second before breaking. Her smile was monumental. She stepped, kissed her girlfriend, and put her helmet on. Rust-covered routine.

Their steps into the Conn-Pod were sure. Steady. Fixed in their strength together. They took worn, practiced steps into the foot bracers, gears whirring and spines wiring into Ember Shroud. Yang looked over; looked to her right this time. Nothing had ever felt so comfortable. Blake’s amber eyes glittered from her position in the right hemisphere.

She winked.

Yang laughed into the Conn.

“Good to see you’re enjoying your tour through your old stomping grounds, Ranger Xiao Long,” Ozpin’s voice broke in from LOCCENT. He didn’t wait for a retort, “Initiating neural handshake in 15 seconds. Fifteen, fourteen, thirteen-,”

“Babe?” Yang called, “Remember when I made you that tiramisu for your 28th?”

Blake was already laughing.

“-Nine, eight, seven-,”

“Yeah?”

“I lied. I bought it. I’m sorry,”

“-Two, one. Neural handshake initiated,”

Yang noticed immediately the difference. Years ago, initiating the handshake had melted her spine. It had gotten better with time. The Drift was like a muscle, dilating and contracting with strength and repetition. Eventually, they had gotten good enough to shield themselves from the abrasive sear of the neural connection’s launch. But Ozpin had apparently worked the kinks out of the PONS.

It was a warmth now.

Warmth seeping into her bones like Yang were standing by a roaring hearth after trudging through fields of snow and ice. Every wave of heat sunk into her, oscillating cycles of _Blake_. Yang could feel her in her mind, distant and looking for her too. Yang breathed, reached out, and tumbled head first into the Drift.

She saw herself. Blake was bent over and kissing Yang's casted shoulder with trembling, salt-stained lips. It was seven days after the Double Event, and Yang wouldn’t wake up for another 42.

The depth of the memory was enough to rob Yang of breath, Arctic temperature water flooding into her senses until there was nothing left except numbness and pain. Blake had suffered. Looking over her own body hidden beneath white sheets and a hospital gown, plaster covering half her body; her mind lost in a medically-induced coma laced with morphine, Blake was 24 and blamed herself. Yang watched as Blake brought flowers and kissed her shoulder in rapid-fire clicks of repetition, her clothes changing flipbook fast with every click. The flowers wilting and refreshing every seven scenes or so.

Blake had told her all of this, of course. But to feel it was so much more. Yang ached. Felt her heart break as Blake’s remembered soul shattered every day; wondering if Yang would wake, and if she did, how horrified she would be at the loss of her arm. Would she resent Blake?

Flicker.

Yang’s eyes were open, teeth clenched as the tears ran. The only thing she truly mourned was not being able to wrap both arms around Blake’s crying form lying over her chest.

Flicker.

Now this was something they hadn’t talked about. Yang sat mostly naked on their bed, prosthetic discarded, Blake talking fast and low as she massaged the very healed scar tissue of Yang’s arm. Blake gasped through the Drift, Yang’s past hurt immeasurable as she stared at her girlfriend.

It had been eight months, and they hadn’t had sex since the Double Event. Her touch was fleeting; fingertips on her hip, pecks to her mouth, back turned to her in bed. Blake didn’t want her. Was disgusted at her. Couldn’t possibly have found her attractive. She wanted to curl up, hide her body in shame. Even then, Yang knew all of these thoughts were lies, but nothing else made sense. Blake and Yang had been so incredibly fond of each other before the Event, physically intimate in every respect. But then Yang started to notice.

In their Drift, the scenes super cut together with Yang’s recollected realization; Blake running her fingers over the wound long after it was clean in the shower. Blake asking her every morning and night in bed like clockwork, was she in pain? Are the bandages too tight? How’s therapy going? All the while, with both hands fisting sheets. Blake moving her afternoon runs to the evenings, tiring herself preemptively.

Yang noticed slower, without the Drift. And squinting through a haze of self-pity, but she noticed.

Blake was at war within her self.

In the Drift, Yang could see it now to be true. Blake, her eyes running over Yang’s svelte form during physical therapy, of all places. Biting her lip at the wide, laughing smile when Yang figured out how to flip pancakes one-handed. Forcing herself to stay seated as Yang stripped down for bed. Guilt keeping her from touching herself in the shower. Obligated herself to wait. Scared to death of pushing; of hurting Yang even on accident.

She hadn’t trusted herself to see the limits; hadn’t trusted Yang to known her own. Yang had finally pinned her one night, biting and ferocious, needy and pleading. It had worked.

Blake was only mortal, after all.

In the Drift, every image washed clear, colored clean with love and forgiveness anew.

Flicker.

Then, there were years of blessed happiness.

The house. The shop. The mornings of bliss and coffee-stained kisses. Pathetic excuses of fights for who held the television remote. Yang had gone running in shoes Blake bought her explicitly for walking. Blake held Ruby’s hair after her 21st birthday had run its course. Yang took them to mountains, oceans, valleys, placid little lakes. Blake dropped her glass when Yang had bitched at Blake’s father for his pointed comments about Kali and Ghira over a stilted dinner. Yang built their porch deck with her bare hands. They made love on their kitchen table after Blake had presented Yang with a new cover plate for her prosthetic; engraved belladonnas and ivy-twined roses to replace the tattoos she had lost. _Happy Anniversary._

Flicker.

Days and nights of endless sex and laughter.

And then a government vehicle was parked in Blake’s driveway, and some part of her knew it had all been temporary. A haven on loan. She held herself together as Yang got in a taxi and drove away. They hadn’t kissed. It would have tasted too much like a kiss goodbye. Something sharp and bitter and all too close to a last kiss.

Blake hadn’t slept for days afterwards. Closed her eyes and imagined the house’s stillness a new equilibrium. Pictured gravestones and Pyrrha’s accidental scream of grief mid-eulogy. Saw violet eyes reaching out for her, waking up in another hospital bed, but this time – alone.

She called Winter.

Flicker.

Yang stood tall, and beautiful, and sad. Her duty-bound soldier, strong enough to bear the weight of the world’s hope on those broad shoulders. And then she was tall, and beautiful, and grinning. Ferocious. Two pieces of a broken bo staff in her hands, one human, one machine.

Those hands. Gripping around her waist, reverent over her breasts. On her jaw, under her throat, inside her, carefully ripping moans from her lips. Yang sweated and worked against her, vicious, grateful, hungry. Blake had never cared less if she ever breathed air again so long as Yang had breathed it first.

Yang, lying soft and sated against the cheap barracks sheets. Lips ruby red and twitching, half-asleep.

Blake’s lovely, whole, angel of the sun.

* * *

 

Blake and Yang were fighting. More correctly, they were bickering.

Well, pretending to bicker.

Ren slid his tray to the table, Nora’s in his other hand. Weiss nodded at him, the tall Vietnamese man blinking his silent cheerful return. Ruby was constantly touched by the little ways in which Weiss showed her affection.

“What. Is happening?” Nora wrapped around Ren’s form, her sweet Irish face wide and thirsty for a response.

“The Rangers,” Emerald sulked, poking at her food and rolling her eyes. She wrinkled her nose, “They’re doing it again,”

“They’re having sex in the mess?” Nora near-yelled. Ruby exploded into laughter with Coco, Velvet’s chuckle softer and tickling.

“No,” Emerald drolled, “Worse. They’re reading,”

Nora craned her head to look, half of the eight of them following her gaze. Ruby sighed, having seen them do this before. They would sit next to each other and read, Blake’s love for literature apparently an infection. Before, she would read out loud, Yang playing with her hair and listening. Now, they held each side of the book, jointly reading. At the same time.

Same page, same sentence, same word.

Every so often, Yang’s attention would drawl, spool out and divert. Or she’d snort at something, a comment deriding someone or another. Blake pretended to be annoyed every time.

“It’s sweet,” Cinder curled, twirling a fork between nimble fingers, languid in posture and observing. Emerald shot her a look, the Italian woman rolling her eyes and returning an assuring smirk. Emerald’s smile was soft.

“Ghost drifting is so _weird_!” Nora crowed, bright blue eyes electric and rounding on her partner, “I wanna do it, Ren, can we? Can we, can we? Please?”

Coco chuckled aloud, Cinder making a low comment to her. They laughed.

Beside Ruby, Weiss’ head fell to one side, thinking hard, not having looked away from Blake and Yang. Ruby nudged her.

“What’s up?”

Weiss pursed her lips, staring. She opened her mouth, closed it, shook her head.

“Do you ever look at them and think of a dog and a cat?”

Ruby burst out laughing.

* * *

 

Yang sprawled in the conference room, lazy and fuelled only by her first two cups of coffee. Next to her, Blake shifted every so often, working out small stretches she’d usually rid herself of on a morning run.

“Yo, Tuk, what’s this about?” Yang wheeled to her right. The big man shrugged.

“Beats me,”

Yang grinned, a day’s old spar dancing in her memory, “Yeah, I do,”

Junior blew a bellowing laugh at his expense, Tukson scowling and shoving him reflexively. Hazel watched his younger brothers start to jostle, rolling his eyes and nodding hello at Emerald when she walked in.

“Why are we here?” Cinder shorted out behind her partner, haughty and annoyed at being woken on a Sunday. Her body folded into the seat Emerald pulled out for her.

“Are we a little hung over, Cinder?” Coco coddled, her French accent purposefully thickened to the mocking droll of a Parisian. The dark-haired woman flipped her off. Velvet salted her wound with a rabbit-quick flash of her scroll’s camera. She leaned back to admire the photo.

“Aw, Cinder, you’re so cute in the mornings,” she gushed, Coco and Yang laughing hysterically.

“Ooo!” Nora clapped on entering, “Send that to me,”

“Do not,” Cinder flattened. Emerald pointed to herself from behind Cinder’s back and nodded emphatically. Velvet winked, firing off a message.

“Is Cinder hung over again? Honestly, Emerald, can’t you tell her to have some decency?” Weiss appeared, taking a seat with Ruby close behind. Blake smirked, turning to Yang and speaking quickly in low, curling Quebecois. Yang guffawed a burst of laughter.

“Rich, coming from the girl assaulting my baby sister in broad daylight. Rubes, you want to file charges?”

Heads turned to Ruby, who blinked, confused. Weiss let out a small scream and slapped a hand over a bright red mark on her partner’s neck. She flushed all the way to her collarbones.

Velvet took another photo.

Emerald laughed until there were tears in her eyes.

Doctor Goodwitch entered on the heels of the Albain twins and General Ironwood. Winter closed the door behind them, looking drawn. The mood nosedived. Each of their faces were grim, a bracing, dour gloom following them in. The door shut with a loud click into the sudden silence.

“Thank you for assembling on such short notice,” Goodwitch said tightly, moving to the front of the room. Yang felt Blake wonder after something, and realized that Ozpin wasn’t in attendance, “I’m afraid we don’t have good news to share,”

The pilots collectively pulled together, attentions strict. Goodwitch pushed up her glasses.

“At midnight last night, Doctor Ozpin conducted an unauthorized experiment. He procured a functioning PONS unit and attempted to Drift with an illegally preserved subject. That subject was the intact brain of a Grimm fetus,”

Yang stared, Blake frozen next to her.

“ _What_?” Corsac exploded.

Everyone knew there had been a black market for Grimm pieces. The PPDC had created an entire sub-agency to track it down and destroy it. Five years ago, the news agencies had featured a Grimm-bust every other week. Possession of Grimm parts, recreational or academic, was illegal.

“Ozpin was able to create a neural connection,” Goodwitch carried on, features rigid, “With relative success. He has been detained, and reports previously unknown information regarding the Grimm. But. As all of you are aware, a Drift is not a one way street,”

“What are you saying?” Hazel growled from his spot by the door.

Fennec wheeled on him, “She’s saying we’re all doomed. The Grimm know everything about us, and everything we’ve prepared. They know exactly where we are,”

“That’s not what she said,” Tukson scowled beside him, glaring. Junior smirked, “Too busy blowing your other half to listen?”

Corsac bristled, mouth opening for a loud protest.

“Guys,” Yang cut in, steely and threatening. She huffed air through her nose, turning hard violet eyes back to Goodwitch, “The Facial Hair Brothers have a point, though. What’s this mean?”

Goodwitch cleared her throat.

“We do not know exactly what has been relayed to the beings behind the breach. Drift is still a difficult science to understand. But in the six hours since the event, we have detected a 43% spike in activity from the breach,”

She quieted, brow stressed and pensive. In the shell-shocked lull, Ironwood stepped forward, “The Grimm are coming,” Ironwood rumbled, “And we need to be ready,”

Even before he had spoken, Blake felt dislike prickle hot and resentful in under her skin. Yang’s hand found her thigh, the metal alloy supple and velvet-quiet in the comforting exerted pressure. Blake breathed, thanks crooning through the Drift.

“Some of us have seen your idea of ready,” she said, icy and pointed, “Some of us remember. General,”

Uncomfortable shifts filled the room, the grey eyes turning to stare Blake down. Yang’s blood instantly heated, Blake’s eyes lighting with her partner’s flaming ire. Mutiny lurked in her gaze.

The General looked away first, “We’re going on the offensive,” he grit, “The PPDC has spent too long operating as a reactionary force. We’ll have seven Jaegers in a month and a half. Full strength,” He leaned over the table, fists meeting tabletop.

“We have to close the breach,”

Blake’s heart stuttered. Yang’s jaw wired. They cast a glance to each other. When they looked away, it was to find the attention of the rest of the pilots trained on them.

“What?” Yang asked, eyes jumping from face to face.

“You’re the only ones who’ve fought them,” Hazel finally gruffed, “Seen the breach. You think it’s a good idea?”

Blake’s surprise trickled through, Yang’s own conflict bouncing back as she ground her teeth. Blake cleared her throat.

“The breach,” she started, frowning, “Is like a cut. A tear in our dimension being held open on one side. There isn’t anyway for us to stitch it shut. It’s a gap in a dam, widening by millimeters every time something passes through. Some day, it’s going to break open completely,” Blake’s voice was a haunting roll, hard truth in the gentle rise and fall, “There’s no way to fix it. But we can destroy whatever’s on the other side,”

“But,” Emerald blinked, eyes darting around the table, “But how?”

“We go through it,” Yang said, looking to Blake’s helpless intention and locking eyes, “If we can send in a detonation that’ll level whatever civilization’s on the other side, we’ll either wipe them out, or let them know not to fuck with us anymore,”

Blake blinked, looking away.

“Doctor Goodwitch?”

The rigid blonde twitched.

“All efforts to enter the breach have failed. But,” she shifted, “Dr. Ozpin has discovered that the Grimm themselves may return if they wish,” she broke off.

“What?” Coco pressed, “What else?”

Goodwitch nodded, “It also seems that the breach is, in fact, being held open. Ozpin has described the Grimm’s masters as possessing a machine of some kind. It emits the energy making the breach possible,” she breathed and battered on to her final point, “He also found that the Grimm intend to occupy this planet,”

Silence.

Yang had known it for a while, Blake having shared the idea. The Grimm were too vicious, too animal, too intent on destroying anything they saw to be anything but conquerors. Grimm _consumed_.

“Alright then,” Yang said, readying and bracing. She looked to Ironwood, “What’s the plan?”

* * *

 

Even the most amateur G-enthusiast would have been able to pick up the increased activity in the breach. Ironwood organized a preemptive press conference. He hadn’t even attempted to use Winter. He’d come to Blake and Yang nearly on his knees.

“Fine,” Blake had said, biting and wintry, “But it’s not for you,”

Ironwood grit his jaw, temples jutting. Muddy cobalt eyes narrowed at Blake’s condescension, but he nodded. Yang had shouldered her way past him after her girlfriend, a hard understanding in her face.

“If you ever look at her like that again, we’re going to have a problem,” she said, dark and out of Blake’s earshot. He might have been a general now, but the tabs on his chest didn’t count for shit in the face of Yang Xiao Long’s rage. He gave, looking away.

Four hours later, he had Jacques Schnee, Goodwitch, Port, Oobleck, and a handful of the world’s leaders on a platform, press swarmed in front of his podium. Cameras shuttered madly, video red lights taking everything down live. Reporters stayed quiet through his prepared statement. After, chaos.

“General Ironwood, why were you keeping this a secret?”

“General, when can we expect another Grimm attack?”

“How many Jaegers do we have?”

“General, what do you plan to do?”

The man stood tall, flinty and discomforting to anyone to look at him. Yang snorted from the wings. Blake hummed her agreement.

“It’s the same as before,” she murmured, “He thinks he’s holding up hope with that expression,”

“He’s delusional,” Yang said, “He’s making it worse,”

Blake all of a sudden felt a white-hot anger press into her spine. Ironwood’s eyes were the same sociopathic blend of stoic reality he’d given her as she lay in a hospital bed five years ago. And now, he was doing it to the entire world. She stepped forward into the crowd, Yang pacing in perfect, unsurprised, harmony.

The chaos of correspondents tilted into anarchy at their powerful presence. The reports called out to them by name. Scaling the podium, Yang only had to glance at him before Ironwood stepped aside.

Blake took up the microphone, Yang steady and grounding next to her.

“Good evening,” Blake said, her mellow gravity hypnotizing the press into quiet. She swallowed, too aware of the attention trained on her. Yang’s hand pressed to her back.

“While I thank General Ironwood for bringing the information to us all, I feel it’s my duty to speak to you today,” she breathed, heartbreakingly beautiful and lifetimes aged, “To tell you that your fear is not baseless. You’re scared, and unsure, and learning these things that were kept from you,” she waved a hand to the PPDC behind her, “makes it worse. Makes you fear even more what you don’t know,”

Blake gripped at the podium, heart set aflame.

“But I have to tell you, my friends and fellows, that your fears are unnecessary. It’s true, we are now at war with these would-be invaders,”

Her head lifted.

“But in war, you must have courage. Prepare. Listen to your organizers. But have courage. And know; we intend to bring this war to the Grimm’s door, and close it forever,”

* * *

 

Yang whistled.

“Damn, babe. You get all dressed up just for me?”

Blake laughed over the running water, handing Yang a clean dish to dry, accepting a slightly sweat-tinged kiss in return. She glanced down at her outfit, an old Air Force tshirt of Yang’s and sweats. Tendrils of hair escaped from her bun fell into her eyes.

“Sure did,” she smirked, her girlfriend back from the gym and glowing, “Someone’s got to keep the magic alive,”

Yang grinned, “Baby, you ask for magic, and I’ll show you magic,” she winked.

Blake giggled, delighted, “What’s got you all worked up, huh?” her eyes sparkled, knowing full well it had been the mind-shattering kiss she’d sent Yang off with. She had pulled away still breathing hard, swatting Yang’s ass as she pushed her out the door. Winding the blonde up and letting her loose in the world always worked. Yang’s linear mind was a beautiful thing.

Yang chuckled, setting the dish aside. Worked into Blake’s space between the counter and her hips. Wrapped arms around her waist and pulled her forward gently. Blake smirked, hands coming up. One arm settled across the expanse of Yang’s overheated back, the other hand slipping to place securely around the back of Yang’s neck, her thumb hooking over the space under Yang’s jaw, over the bottom of her ear. She tightened her hold, a firm sort of pressure. Yang yielded immediately, relaxing under the direction of Blake’s stable hand.

Blake smiled, teeth and all, up at Yang’s obedient comfort. She crowded in, Yang pushed to lean heavily on the counter behind her, unwinding in rapid falls. Blake hummed, forefinger scratching into Yang’s hair.

“Feels nice,” Yang warbled.

“Yeah,” Blake crooned, “Hard workout?”

“Mhm,”

“Why don’t you go shower?”

“Come with,”

Blake laughed, quiet between them in the silence of their warm barracks apartment.

“I already did,” she played with directing Yang’s head around a little, in love with the close of her girlfriend’s eyes as she smiled subconsciously, “Come on, champ, up you go,”

Yang sighed, taking responsibility for her weight again. She opened her eyes and straightened slowly, Blake smiling at her. Yang wrinkled her nose.

“I hate waiting,”

“I love making you wait,”

Yang chuckled, Blake stepping back and pushing her away. The blonde drug her feet dramatically, pretended every step brought her closer to death instead of a bar of soap. Blake had already returned to the dishes.

“The longer you take, the longer you wait,” she called, smirking when Yang took the opportunity to sarcastically jump for joy. Her response was interrupted by a rapid knocking. Yang spun, frowning at Blake. The brunette cocked an eyebrow and shrugged. Glanced pointedly at her wet hands. Yang went to answer.

On opening, her sister’s worried face stared back at her.

“I need to talk to you,”

Yang frowned, “Ruby. You okay?”

“Yeah,” Ruby tipped her head, “No. I don’t know,”

The blonde looked back into her apartment, Blake paused from her place at the sink and paying attention.

“You want to come in, or have me come out?” Yang tried. Audience, or no?

“In,” Ruby’s eyes were wide as she pushed through the doorway, “Definitely, in. Blake’s here, right?”

“Hey,” Blake dried her hands on a towel, “What’s wrong?”

Ruby paced to the kitchen area, turning and repeating the small walk, “Sit, both of you,”

Yang’s eyebrows climbed, Blake’s own concern licking into her through the Drift. She followed her girlfriend into a slow lowering onto their kitchen table’s chairs. Beneath the table, Yang’s hand closed over the magnetic pull of Blake’s right hand gravitating to her lap. Blake pressed into the lace of their fingers, a small plead to stay quiet while Ruby paced in front of them, her sister obviously straining to start.

“Sorry to barge in,” Ruby eventually fussed, “I don’t know if you had a date night planned or something,”

“Come on, Sis,” Yang tried, “You’re freaking us out,”

The younger girl grimaced, stopping. She sighed and found the opposite chair. Her thumbnails clicked against each other as she played with her hands.

“I need to talk to you guys. About Weiss. About the General’s plans,”

Blake nodded, Yang’s brows drawing. As far as they knew, Weiss and Ruby were great partners. They had charted a 99.07 neural overlap, and Ruby had never seemed happier.

“I just feel like something is going to happen,” Ruby fretted, “And I can’t stop thinking about, well,” she flashed apologetic, “You two,”

Yang’s eyebrows rose, her mouth parting. Ruby rubbed the heel of one hand over her brow in frustration.

“I don’t- I don’t mean it like that. You guy are like, the perfect couple,” Ruby tried, her hands flying as quickly as she spoke, “It’s always been that way. You were so in love, I mean. You still are, I know, but I- I didn’t think anything could touch you. And I just remember how hard it was for both of you after Knifehead, and you know, just now. It’s like no matter how good it seems, it’s all so fragile,”

She slowed, eyebrows pinched, “It’s only been seven months but. Now that I know what it’s like. I couldn’t… If anything happened to Weiss I-. I don’t know what I’d do,” her forehead found the table.

Blake sent Yang a quick, pensive look. Yang gave tiny dip of her head, clear. _You take this one_. Blake hummed; pursed her lips.

“Ruby,” Blake said quietly. She reached out and covered one of Ruby’s hands with hers. Ruby looked up, propping her chin on the table top in misery.

“When you love someone. You open yourself up to suffering,” Blake continued, kind and subdued, “It’s the sad truth. That’s what we risk. The idea of losing our greatest happiness,” she squeezed gently, “That’s the burden. It’s a burden with weight, and it’s heavy on our backs. But Ruby, having that burden is like having wings. It’s a weight that lets us fly to places we never could have imagined,”

Ruby stared at the warmth in Blake’s soothing eyes.

“It sounds cliché,” she smiled, “But it’s true. You love her. Let her carry you for a while,”

Yang’s amethyst eyes rang her boundless agreement, arm wrapping across the back of Blake’s chair. Ruby breathed, seeing the steadiness there. She nodded. She had forgotten something critically important.

That Blake and Yang had never been fragile. Even torn apart, separated, or half-dead, they had never been fragile. That Blake chose Yang, and Yang chose her too. They were unabashed, unashamed, and unflinching in their choice.

Only the fragile had fear of breaking.

* * *

 

A month before graduation, Vladivostok washed red.

The sirens were too deep. They sounded like war drums.

Winter knocked on their door.

Yang couldn’t help but laugh. Blake huffed. Whined into the sheets. She wiggled closer and buried into Yang’s neck.

“If you throw me in the bathroom again, and I’ll kick your ass, Yang Xiao Long,”

Yang grinned. Blake’s ivory skin was beautiful against the stain of light. She leaned, kissed the top of her head.

“Time to go to work,”

Blake laughed, already bone-tired but fully awake.

“Just another day at the office,”

They dressed quickly, powering down a cup of coffee and a spoonful of peanut butter each. They were the last ones to the conference room, officially nicknamed the War Room after Blake’s press statement.

Winter nodded to Goodwitch after they arrived, the doctor immediately launching into their data reads.

“Grimm activity never seen before,” she rattled off, scroll projecting the charts, “Without reference points, we’re unsure, but it’s looking like three Grimm, all Category IV. Six hours out,”

The room vacuumed with a collective brace, but they had been prepared for something like this. Something unimaginable. Ironwood’s jaw flexed.

“Alright,” he nodded, “Run the attack,”

The data cleared, appearing again as a light-replica of the breach, three triangles representing the Grimm to appear.

“Team one,” Yang settled, leaning forward to touch the map, tracing as she spoke, “Will lead the first Grimm north. Ours’ll be called Manticore,”

Hazel filled in, “Triad Brawler and Ember Shroud draw it away and destroy,”

“Team two,” Cinder says, the natural drawl in her voice a little sharper with her focus, “Crimson Bandit antagonizes our Grimm south, where Menagerie Fang will wait for ambush. Grimm two will be Feileather,” across the way, Fennec touches their planned location.

Coco nods, “Team three. Gatling Flash pushes Grimm number three, Leviaslattern, back east toward the breach, Storm Hammer coming in hot for a two-on-one where it doesn’t expect it,” she grins at Nora, who high-fives her.

“While Naster Crescent waits,” Ruby finishes, “We’ll have the thermonuclear bomb, and be waiting for our signal to sprint,”

Weiss nods, “First team to kill their Grimm will call with their location, the rest of the teams drawing their still living Grimm away from that spot. With the Grimm’s carcass, we’ll get the bomb in it, set the timer, and send it through the breach,”

The pilots breathed.

Winter cleared her throat.

“Five hours, Rangers. Let’s move to the Drivesuit room,”

And then Yang was kissing Blake, her helmet coming down, her feet stepping into the pedals of the Conn-Pod.

The drop. The Drift.

Ember Shroud walking, risen from the dead. Yang didn’t try to contain her smile. Blake let her laugh. She was, all things considered, a pilot by nature. Nothing on Earth piloted like a Jaeger. Their inter-Jaeger comms clicked, crackled, cried with the Rangers’ maiden voyages.

“Fucking _awesome!_ ” Nora screamed.

Coco was cackling madly, Junior and Tukson howling with bellows of powerful whoops.

“Why didn’t you _tell me_ it was this cool?” Ruby connected to Ember Shroud, “I would have joined with you did, Yang!”

“Ruby,” Weiss’ voice glitched, “You were _seventeen_ when Yang went to the Jaeger Academy,”

Yang laughed, Ember Shroud crushing house-wrecking waves under her feet, “Weiss, do me a favor and quit trying to make me feel old,”

The Jaegers fanned out in a reverse-V formation, Naster Rose at the rear.

“Rangers,” Winter’s voice whipped through the comms, LOCCENT’s data updating. A bucket of cold water over the brief moment of respite, “Grimm signature detected,”

Yang glanced to Blake, resolve cementing into the Drift. Blake reached, holding down the comms button, “Team 1, heading north,”

“Team 2, heading south,”

“Team 3, continuing east,”

“Naster Crescent, standing by,”

They didn’t get a two miles between them before their sensors alerted, the waters exploding around them. They turned, Triad Brawler staggering backwards under the weight of a broad, monstrous Grimm bowling into it, the Jaeger staggering aside. Ember Shroud wheeled, data screens flashing as they turned to assist.

“Grimm Manticore and Feileather on radar,” Blake called, “Third signature detected, not found,”

“Charging Plasma gauntlets,” Yang answered.

They reached the Grimm, jointly stepping forward to wrap arms around it in a crushing headlock. It was awkward, the monster had twenty foot spikes protruding from every knob on its spine, two massive horns planted on its head forcing them to jink to the side, trying to maintain a grip.

The Grimm wailed, shaking a massive head to loosen their hold.

Triad Brawler was on its feet now. An anomalous Mark-5, it had three arms, one for each Rainart brother. Two hands captured Manticore’s serrated arms, keeping it from reaching back to elbow Ember Shroud. The third arm curled a fist and slammed into its face.

Blake and Yang grunted, weaving and digging in simultaneously to contain a thrashing Grimm taking astonishing damage. It was working, though. Already, Yang could spot the Grimm-grey blood dropping into the ocean at their thighs.

“Third Grimm!” Winter wailed, “Leviaslattern! Category V!”

“ _What_?” Yang hissed.

In the next second, a terrible shriek pierced the thick armor of Ember Shroud’s Conn-Pod. Even Manticore stiffened in pain. Worse though, was every light in Triad Brawler snuffing out.

“No,” Blake gasped, her eyes wide. Their dust-reactor was dead. The Grimm screamed, jerking from their grip. Ember Shroud reflexively reached forward, Yang instinctively pulling its attention away from the helpless Mark-5. They lunged, hands wrapping around Manticore’s horns and pushing with everything they had, locked against the Grimm’s own forward attack.

Blake and Yang grimaced, arms jointly raised. They broke a sweat, holding.

Blake’s mind flashed, Yang agreeing instantly.

“One, two,-“

“Three!”

They twisted, stepped, and used the Grimm’s full-body push against it, a Judo-throw of thousands of pounds of alien weight over their shoulder. Manticore screamed, a wild stab of a hand clipping Ember Shroud and knocking them off-balance. Yang swore, the killing blow robbed from them.

In the disorientation, LOCCENT patched through in static breaks.

“The Mark-5’s are out!” Winter’s voice cracked, fuzzy and scrambling through the Conn-Pod, “-some kind of sonic assault- _crrrrtzz_ -working on restart-,”

The comms to LOCCENT cut out entirely.

“The dust-light reactor,” Blake breathed, Yang realizing in the same moment what Blake meant, “The Mark-4s have the same nuclear reactor to power their Jaegers as we do, but the Mark-5’s operate on dust-light,”

“The Grimm made a dust-light scrambler,” Yang grit, eyes locked on the unmoving form of Triad Brawler, dead in the water, “Ozpin, you son of a _bitch-!_ ”

“Yang!”

She saw it in Blake’s mind’s eye, reflexively throwing a hand up to take Manticore by the throat seconds before jaws clamped down around their head. Left hand up, right arm held to its stomach and blasting with the Plasma gauntlet. Yang had to hoot a little, internally tickled. Maria had figured out a way to let them fire repeatedly.

“Kiss her later,” Blake grunted, right arm pulling the trigger and fighting the recoil. The Grimm was wailing, jaws snapping as Yang held it in a steady stiff-arm. It swung its head, mammoth horns nearly catching. Ember Shroud ducked, relinquishing its hold.

Manticore bled into the ocean, Yang gritting her teeth as Blake planned. It could be faking its weakness. Suddenly, Yang felt Blake pushing a memory into her head. Their bitchy neighbor’s kid had been running naked around their yard, his parents desperate to grab him and return him to propriety. He had escaped a certain capture by wits and stupidity.

Which was a better idea than Yang currently had.

Ember Shroud turned to face the Grimm head-on. A distinct disadvantage to its lethal face-skewers. It roared, and charged.

“ _Olay_ ,” Yang whispered darkly.

As one, they ran forward to meet it. In two seconds and a flash, Ember Shroud slid to the ocean floor, corkscrewed up, and grasped for the spines on Manticore’s back, using them to haul themselves up. One hand on the spikes, Yang reared her left hand back and fired her Plasma gauntlet into the Grimm’s neck, the kick from the discharge jolting up her arm with every fire.

Manticore screamed and screamed, swung an arm back and dented the protective arm Blake held up to block. It died seconds later, falling limp and lifeless into the ocean. Yang heaved breaths, Blake pulling air in and out at the same tired pace. They didn’t think about it.

“Triad Brawler,” Blake tried, “Hazel! Tuk! Junior?”

Nothing. Yang swore, mind racing to her sister. To the other Mark-5’s. Defenseless, easy targets.

“We’ve got to get to the rest of them,”

They had already been moving in the right direction, Yang striding evenly with Blake. The brunette’s eyes roved over the data readings.

“Manticore’s signature is gone,” her chest went tight, “I can’t find Feileather, and Leviaslattern is close to the breach with Crimson Bandit and Gatling Flash,”

“Fucking Albains,” Yang’s fear said, not seeing Menagerie Fang on their map. Or any of the Mark-5 Jaegers.

“Coming up on the mark in 10,” Blake called, Ember Shroud truly immersed in the ocean now. The Mariana Trench was the deepest point on Earth. Their Jaeger moved like they were still on dry land.

“Blake! Yang!”

Blake hit the inter-Jaeger comms with a little too much force, “Em, Cinder, where are you?”

Emerald was breathless, “Sending our location,”

Yang got it and immediately rerouted, Blake talking fast.

“Where are the Mark-5s?”

“They’re fine, LOCCENT was working on a remote restart. Corsac and Fennec are gone. Coco and Velv went back to get the thermo bomb from Naster Crescent. We took out Feileather but this Leviaslattern is a motherfucker. He keeps disappearing,”

Blake exchanged a hard look with Yang as they jumped off a cliff, sinking to the next level of ocean. It was odd, how the deeper they went, the brighter it got. They were close to the breach.

“We’re almost there, Em, we-“

“Blake!”

“Fuck!” Emerald’s comms shut off.

They had gained visuals on Crimson Bandit standing on a shelf in the trench just in time to watch the largest Grimm they’d ever seen explode upwards from the deeper Cliffside. It was a Category V, the largest and most deadly ever. An intersecting hammerhead-like X formed its face, two arms fused at the shoulder joint on each side for a lethal four, hands tipped in gouging claws. It had a tail triple-crowned in a split, three different prongs promising to piece straight through Jaeger armor.

Crimson Bandit sprung backwards, both arms extending with the twin half-scythes Emerald and Cinder preferred. It was pure defense, cuts and stabs in retaliation to the barrage of screaming, flailing stabs Leviaslattern aimed at the Jaeger.

Ember Shroud ran. Blake and Yang reached back, unveiling the new and improved sword gifted to them. It was more of a katana than anything, and Plasma-bright light exploded around the edges. Yang grit her teeth, Blake joining her in their careful steps to charge.

Only to have a sensor flare urgently, sword whipping to the side and bracing, a massive creature barreling into their side. Blake’s eyes went wild, checking the data reads.

It was Feileather.

Not dead.

They grunted against the Grimm’s exerted force dipping and getting out from underneath the crushing push. It was enormous. Not as big as Leviaslattern, but larger than Manticore had been. It looked like a towering, spiked-tile alligator, its maw the predominant feature on a broad, extended triangular head. It was already bloody, missing an arm and the end of what most likely used to be a formidable tail.

Yang sent a grisly laugh to Blake. Emerald and Cinder were not to be fucked with.

“Em! Yang! We’re here!”

“Coco, get to Crimson Bandit!” Blake called, Ember Shroud stepping to keep Feileather focused on them, Yang’s teeth grit but agreeing with every fiber, “We’ll keep this one fixed, that Cat V has to be double teamed!”

“On it!” Velvet fired off.

Feileather flattened itself in a sleek strike and _swam_ at them, quick as a blink. They jumped, twisting when Feileather followed their movement, mouth opening. Yang thought, Blake moving with her.

They parried with the katana, backing up as Feileather advanced. Parried its mouth again, the Grimm roaring with frustration. They sweated, waiting for just the right moment. Another series of parries, and then Feileather opened its jaws wide, bottom jaw batting the katana away as it jumped straight for them.

Yang’s eyes locked on, Blake’s instincts times perfectly as they spun their sword with one hand, the other letting go to free up use. In a quick, jerking, lightning strike, they pulled in both directions, a katana lancing through the bottom jaw, their left hand griping around the top jaw, holding the maw apart.

They grunted with strain, shoving the katana one-armed deeper into the ocean floor, anchoring it. Blake ground her teeth against the feeling of Feileather’s teeth burying into the right forearm as it bellowed in anger.

“Blake!”

“Got it,”

Blake released the sword quickly, joining Yang in a quick step and punching forward, Plasma gauntlet kicking out energy blasts into the soft open insides of the Grimm. It screamed in pain. Already half-dead, the Grimm quickly fell quiet. Yang scowled, pleased when Blake caught her intentions and kicked the Grimm over, firing a certifying shot of absolute death.

Yang touched the inter-Jaeger comm as they made it back to the breach, the light eerie and acidic orange not 100 feet below them.

“Velv, you read?”

“We’re here,” the girl came in, “But we’re nearly down. Bastard took our auto-lock out, we’re firing blind without it,”

“Where is he?”

“Dunno,” Velvet responsed, “Coco told Em and Cinder had to fall back. He landed a hit to their oxygen and pressure stabilizers,”

“Good call,” Yang whipped, meaning it. Crimson Bandit had probably five minutes of air left, and they still had to make it to the surface. Too many people had died already. Blake’s brain was firing rapidly as she swept the scanners.

“Coco, you guys still have the thermonuke?”

“Yeah,”

“Good,” Blake bit out, “Use it,”

“What?”

“Charge it,” Blake said, brows drawn, “Leviaslattern will pick us off at this rate. We can come back to fight another day,” Yang sent a gritting, hard look to her partner. Felt the truer meaning in her words.

“Okay,” Coco filtered in, “Ironwood’ll shit himself but it sounds like a plan to us,”

“I’ve never really cared what wet Ironwood’s pants,” Yang grimaced.

Blake found enough strength to let her lips twitch.

“Leviaslattern seems to like drawing us apart,” Blake focused back in, “Charge the thermo and we’ll call you when we pick him up. Lob the thing, and we’ll toss him toward the breach. Hopefully it’ll pass through, but if not, at least it’ll kill him,”

Yang saw it all flash through her mind. Breathed out, harsh, but didn’t add on.

Coco and Velvet chorused agreement.

Ember Shroud moved back, waiting.

“Blake,” Yang started, the brunette’s chest quaking through the Drift.

“What else can we do, Yang?”

Yang sighed, her heart breaking.

“Nothing. I love you,”

Amber eyes burned, her response resounding and overwhelming in the heat of the Drift.

“I love you, too,”

Their sensors light up like a Christmas tree.

“Coco!” Blake yelled, Ember Shroud launching at the Grimm nearly double their size. It was a classic Krav-maga take down, the speed of it at least surprising Leviaslattern. Yang grunted with Blake, momentum helping the final burst of strength as they pitched forward and bodily threw the monster over the edge of the cliff to the breach below. An alert beeped.

“Blake!”

Ember Shroud dove back to the trench’s wall, the thermonuclear blast blowing an astonishing force over the edge of the cliff. Blake and Yang curl, pushed hard into the rock wall for long, powerful seconds. They hear screams.

“We gotta surface,” Gatling Flash comes in, “Hit a jut in the wall and severed a knee,”

“Right behind you,” Blake says.

Gatling Flash faded from their map. Blake and Yang breathe, stepping forward to peer over the cliff. Leviaslattern thrashes on a shelf below them. Yang’s blood roars in her ears. Blake’s heart rocks in her chest. This had been Blake’s plan all along.

They jump. Landing on top of Leviaslattern with unimaginable force, Yang firing shots anywhere she can find. They grapple, wrestle with the weakened and deformed Grimm. It wraps arms around Ember Shroud, either an attack or in the final wracks of death. The pilots grunt, and twisting to roll off the cliff. They fall just as Leviaslattern gets in his last shots, tail whipping out to slice into the spine of Ember Shroud.

They scream, circuitry suits echoing the white-hot pain of nerves frying. But Yang and Blake are the best Jaeger pilots to ever live, and they will die as the best. Focus unbroken. They coil, one last movement before Ember Shroud’s already shorted neural interface corrupts. But it’s enough.

As they fall, Ember Shroud moved to ensure Leviaslattern’s back fell first. They held their breath. And sunk through the breach.

Yang gasped, Blake’s eyes wide. A foreign terror, awed and entranced, filtered through them. It was bright, this other side of the breach. This other dimension. Blake wasn’t sure she’d ever seen that color before. Yang stared, captured, as her mind catalogued an immediate loss of which way was up.

Even as they were falling, slowly, but still falling, the Drift kept her grounded. She blinked, finally seeing the red window of Ember Shroud’s ‘low oxygen’ on their overheads.

“Blake,” her voice was hoarse.

And then it was a whirlwind of movement. They had one chance. A matter of seconds.

The woman jolted, escaping their helmets and controls, hands crawling over the panels of the Conn-Pod. Desperate fingers claw through overrides and windows no one ever intended to be brought up. Yang pops off the front-plate of the secret panel Blake had made, the brunette ripping at her own circuitry suit’s zipper. Yang cleared a programmer’s window, a card ejecting. She took it and shoved it into the revealed panel, Blake’s black pearl necklace snapping at the chain for her to drop it into the circular keyhole.

Finally, the last window appeared.

‘Nuclear Vortex Turbine Reactor, Self-Destruct?’

Blake hit ‘yes’ with everything she had.

The entire Pod flashed red, and Blake grabbed her necklace with one hand, Yang with the other. They flew to the far wall, slapped over the red buttons to reveal the emergence ejection tubes, and stepped inside. Blake shot Yang a look of pure fear. And then she disappeared.

A half second later, Yang was launched from Ember Shroud. Back into the chaos of a dimension she didn’t belong in. Light zipped over her eyes, turned her stomach, extraterrestrial colors clouding her vision. All while completely soundless. The only thing she could make sense of was the near-blinding familiarity of an explosion. Her entire body was tense, but standing in the suffocating tube propelling her upwards, she felt her bones turn to jelly.

If she died, at least she took out the Grimm.

At least Blake had been so beautifully clear-headed enough to calculate out the devastation a nuclear turbine reaction could generate when backflowed with Plasma gauntlet particles.

Three thermonuclear bombs worth or more, Blake had realized. Yang tipped her head back, closing her eyes. It’s possible she blacked out. There was no other reason for her to remember the smile on Blake’s face when she had been 21 and girlishly flattered when Yang remembered her favorite type of tea.

But Yang remembered.

It fixed in her mind, that subtle curl of her love’s lips. The delicate crinkle folded into the corners of her honeyed eyes. She’d eventually see those eyes sparkle. See them roll. Cry. Irritate. Love.

But here, just the placid, elusive sort of pleasure of a girl touched at the heart. It made Yang smile. Made her swallow. Blake really was unfairly beautiful.

She opened her eyes.

At first, she thought it was the hospital. Sterile white above her. But the smell of salt was too much, and a familiar shadow crouched over her. Yang jolted.

She was alive. The ejection tube floated with inflated bags on every side, the clear front blown off when they hit the surface. Yang looked over, an empty tube a ways off. Blake dripped water, soaking wet and smiling so broadly it nearly broke Yang’s heart.

Nevermind, Yang couldn’t help but think, her lilac eyes roving over the terrible, fierce joy thundering through Blake’s expression. This was better than tea.

“Hey,” she croaked. Cleared her throat. There were helicopters in the distance, and they were alive. Alive. So alive, “You gonna kiss me or what?”

Blake tipped her head back and laughed. Relief, hard fought and overwhelming, amplified the sound. She curled her hands over the plates of Yang’s battle armor. Yang smiled, sitting up, pulling Blake into her lap.

Yang let her eyes fall shut. Blake’s forehead touched her own.

They had done it.

They held each other, rocking in the waves of the sea.

Letting the Pacific churn their lives one last time.

* * *

 

 

**Future, Four Months**

 

Blake frowned, pushing through her front door. Nodding to the two suited men loitering by the government vehicle in her driveway. She cocked an eyebrow into the quiet house.

She stepped, heels clicking over tile, to stow her briefcase and purse under their hall table. Amber eyes rolled. She bent, collected Yang’s running shoes from her favorite place of potential tripping at the bottom of the stairs, throwing them to the top of the stairs. Blake sighed, braced, and pushed into the kitchen.

“Winter,” she greeted.

The white-haired woman was actually wearing civilians. Hair down and pin-straight to her ribs, skin-tight jeans and a form fitting tank top matched heeled ankle boots. She was standing.

“Blake,” she returned cordially.

Blake’s eyes turned, her girlfriend smirking in nothing but a sports bra and jean shorts. Blake nearly laughed aloud. Yang had one hand on a mostly finished beer, the other thrown behind her head.

“My apologizes, but I must be going,” Winter said, “The PPDC’s disassembly has taken longer than we imagined. I was only able to step out briefly,”

Blake’s eyebrow slid.

“Not a social visit, then?”

“No,” to Blake’s surprise, Winter’s pale complexion colored, “I am… simply honoring the contract the PPDC made with Ranger Xiao Long. As part of her re-enlistment incentive,”

Blake’s brow furrowed, glancing to Yang’s carefully constructed expression, “Is that right?”

“Yes,” Winter cleared her throat. She stepped forward, and fished a lunchbag-sized box from her purse, setting it on the table. Blake noticed she was extremely careful not to look at it for too long. With another nod to Blake, Winter showed herself out.

Blake’s eyebrows furrowed with a smile as she examined the plain white box. She deposited her keys in the bowl they kept.

“What re-enlistment incentive?” she cocked her head at Yang. The blonde smiled, scooting her chair backwards for Blake. The brunette slid across her lap, reaching for Yang’s beer.

“I forgot to tell you,” Yang said, biting her lip, “I think I’d honestly forgotten, or you would have seen it in the Drift,”

Blake nodded. Yang huffed a laugh, lavender eyes soft.

“Well. You know how you saw I had a pretty painful in-processing physical?”

Blake nodded, her brilliant mind following but at a loss, “The spinal tap,”

Yang smiled oddly, “No,”

“No?”

“No,” she laughed. Looked at Blake meaningfully, “I had asked Ironwood for a scientific favor,” Blake frowned. Yang breathed, smiling softly, “Six years ago, I made you a promise,”

Blake’s eyes widened.

Yang grinned.

“Sorry we don’t get to coin toss for it,”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note to Self; Don't screw around with multiple tropes ever again.  
> Ten points to the house of your choice if you shame me for ruining multiple franchises.
> 
> Thanks for reading, guys. Let me know what you thought!  
> With Love,  
> K


End file.
